


Keeper

by HepG2



Series: Keeper [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM Scene, Dom Steve Rogers, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Relationships, Food Kink, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Penetrative Sex Toys, Organized Crime, Platonic BDSM, Protective Steve Rogers, Rope Bondage, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Sub Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark-centric, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 82
Words: 81,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HepG2/pseuds/HepG2
Summary: “Uh, I’m… very new to the whole thing,” Tony swallows visibly. He uncrosses his legs and grabs his cup again. “I looked at pictures. Research. They look graphic.” Tony Stark is a journalist hanging onto the last of his life lines. He needs new writing materials. Something that sells. Then the whole town is talking about a BDSM play gone wrong, and there it is. His story. Steve chuckles again. Tony notices he hasn’t touched his drink. “No worries. It’s very unlikely for us to take it up to that level.It takes two to tango.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! I realise I lack discipline in writing multi chapter-ed fics. So I'm trying something different here, dividing a long fic into bursts, so I don't get bored before I reach the end. Each chapter has about 1,000 words, so hopefully we can all see this to the end!

A journalist – what Anthony Edward Stark is – is, essentially a story teller. The good ones spin an Iliad out of the most mundane of facts. Really, it’s all about the angles. People like something _edgy_ these days. See, to an old lady, misplacing her $15 engagement ring is big news, but nobody wants to read about it. Or a fat tabby getting stuck in the tree. No. People _might_ – just might – give an ounce of damn if the engagement ring has a rose diamond the size of Yao Ming’s thumb dated back to the 18th century. Or if that tabby’s owner is Lindsay Lohan. Uh, no, make that Taylor Swift. Or the Kardashians.

 

_Edgy._

But that’s not how Tony Stark operate because that goes against every fibre of his journalistic conduct. Tony doesn’t do the “shining spotlights just outside of the X-mark” thing because _what for?_ Yeah, nobody else is doing it, so by doing it, you’re getting a scoop like no others, and that means something _novel_ , so you might just sell more papers. Say that tabby belongs to – who’s the talk of Tinsel Town these days… – Robert Downey fucking Jr, then for God sake don’t write about the tabby, or the tree, or Mr Downey. Write about that one time he dumped all his drugs into the sea and vowed to never do them again. Then end the article with the stupid cat.

 

Writing articles that sell is necessary. It foots the bill. And he likes to burn cash to enjoy life.

 

“Right. You want your edge? I’ll give you edge. You hear about the incident in Palo Alto?”

 

If he refuses to embellish stories, what else can he do to write stories that _will_ sell?

 

“Huh. Some MILF choked to death in a play gone wrong?”

 

“Exactly. So the whole town is talking about it. Hell, that movie, uh –”

 

“50 Shades of Red.”

 

“Black.”

 

“Grey.”

 

“Yeah, that one. The whole town is talking about kinky sex play, toys and oil and – and whatever. Tell you what. Give me a corner, and I’ll run it weekly exploring the lives of the community. We can do a trial run, say for a month? If it’s not well-received, you can shut it down.”

 

“I’ll take your press badge with it, Stark.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“My bosses are not happy with your performance. And if they’re not happy, there’s nothing much I can do about it.”

 

And that is how Tony finds himself in a Starbucks sofa, sequestered in a dim-lighted corner, sitting at an angle that’s just acute enough to hide his face from the rest of the café. It’s totally on purpose, because, well.

 

“Mr Stark?”

 

Tony looks up the magazine he is not-perusing and leaps to his feet. He smiles – _smirks_ , more like, because his skin is stretching way too tightly around his ears – at his guest and takes the proffered hand.

 

“Hi. Tony will do.”

 

“Steve.”

 

They sit, taking opposite sides around a low coffee table. Tony is just about to put aside his magazine when he realises that he’s been holding it upside down. He shoots Steve a look and catches him eyeing it too with an almost-there frown.

 

“OK, Steve!” Tony places a pillow firmly on the magazine. “Thank you for coming. I think I’ve stated my intentions quite clearly in the e-mail, but if you need further clarifications? Or maybe you need some, uh identifications just to be sure I’m who I claimed to be?”

 

“Meeting you personally just confirmed it,” Steve replies easily. He leans into his seat and presses a gaze – piercing and calculative – into Tony which makes his insides churn. He doesn’t know if it was done on purpose, but he grabs his espresso and takes a quick sip. To which Steve chuckles, light enough to not sound like he’s having fun.

 

“It’s just our first meeting, Tony. There’s no contract, or blood oaths. In fact, if you want to leave right now you may very well do so.”

 

“Free country, right?”

 

Steve watches Tony’s knuckles uncurl from his knees. “It is.”

 

“You are aware that I’m going to use our… _experience_ in my articles? No names, probably not much details… no, details are what matter, but sanitised for the general public. And this whole deal is only going to be for one month. Is that OK with you? Because I understand that the more… hardcore participants tend to make it a serious commitment –”

 

“While the duration does matter, in a way, it doesn’t deprive you of actual experiences if you’re only in it short term. But if you’re concerned about it, I can link you up with friends of mine who’ve nurtured year-long relationships –”

 

“No, that won’t do,” Tony sighs. He crosses a leg over his knee. “It has to be from a first person point of view. Mine. So you’re saying, you – sorry, we – can still make this work even with just one month to work with?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Uh, I’m… _very new_ to the whole thing,” Tony swallows visibly. He uncrosses his legs and grabs his cup again. “I looked at pictures. Research. They look graphic.”

 

Steve chuckles again. Tony notices he hasn’t touched his drink. “No worries. It’s very unlikely for us to take it up to that level. Think of it like… a physical exercise. There are many levels to it, aren’t there? Different types to suit different needs. There’s yoga that isn’t quite as vigorous as playing soccer, or tossing Frisbee versus lifting weights.”

 

Tony nods. Swell. What’s he waiting for?

 

“OK. Let’s do this.”

 

Steve smiles, and reaches for his coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! You guys have been fantastic, thank you for reading!
> 
> I'll add more tags as we go along :)

“So, this is it? It’s _on?_ ”

 

Apparently, there’s a contract of some sort to take care of first. But of course. Tony supposed in a mad game like this, Uncle Murphy is God and _when_ things go wrong, nobody wants to be caught with their pants down.

 

Both their cups are empty by now. Tony is getting better at tuning out surrounding activities and keeping his focus on Steve, this… _Steve_ who is the very definition of cucumber cool. Tony is sitting here with adrenaline coursing his veins – fight or fight response dialled up to max, because there is no fucking way he’s _cowering_ before another stand-up citizen of the great U.S. of A, and it’s broad daylight.

 

And please, this is his first rodeo. Steve is obviously a veteran.

 

Oh, the things he’s willing to do for the next paycheck.

 

Tony has trawled the forums – yes, the forums _are_ legitimate sources of information – long and hard for a Dominant he can count on. Steve’s name – his nickname actually, and Tony did laugh out loud that night – _Captain America_ – comes up as often as every other page, in _at least_ seven different threads. It’s all mostly tied to “the shows” – which means both “no clue” and “damn, more research” on his part – about how collected and _in control_ Steve was. How he was able to push boundaries without breaking them.

 

Tony wriggled his nose, scribbled “Captain America” down on his notepad, and put a sizeable asterisk beside it.

 

Believe it or not, “Captain America” isn’t something that’ll come up on any respectable database. Tony used his not inconsiderable amount of underground network to get a proper name, and Steve Rogers is all he got.

 

There are 22 Steve Rogers this side of California.

 

“We can start as soon as you’re ready.”

 

“Tomorrow?”

 

Steve wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, contemplative. Tony purses his lips, “Is that too soon?” How fast is fast? _How slow is slow?_ Is Steve supposed to dictate every minute of his life now, because doesn’t that come within the territory of an S.L.A.V.E.?

 

“As long as you’re ready, Tony.”

 

“Tomorrow it is.” If he’s getting a say in this, he’s taking it. “Where?”

 

“For convenience, we can book a room. Actually, you’ll have to do it, for your own safety, just so you can be sure that I don’t tamper the room with recordings. It’s something that troubles my previous… partners,” Steve explains. “You can give me the address afterward. But it does get expensive after a while.”

 

An astute observation, Tony thinks darkly. And sounds like someone isn’t volunteering a single cent out of his wallet.

 

“In that case, I’ll suggest your home. Your domain. You’ll feel safer there.”

 

“Only, you’ll know where I live.”

 

“These are suggestions. You decide.”

 

He can already see the four-digit balance in his checking account diminishing.

 

“OK. So tomorrow 8 p.m.? And I’ll text you the address later?”

 

“Sure. I should be off duty, if nothing crops up. As long as the place is in town, I’ll be on time.”

 

“Off duty?”

 

Steve tilts his head a bit. “I’m a law enforcement officer.”

 

“You’re a _cop?_ Wait a sec, is that how you’re so sure I’m not a con?”

 

“It was a strange e-mail you sent me, but yeah, a cursory check is all it takes to be sure. Don’t worry. You don’t even have a ticket to your name.”

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“Shall we talk terms?”

 

Tony expects it to be as long and constricting as his mortgage, but at the end of it, their laundry list of do’s and don’ts boasts only three items:

  1. Nobody else in this relationship other than them. That is, no other Dominants or Submissive partners in this merry union.



 

“Are you seeing someone?” Steve asks in a casual tone that belies a hint of curiosity.

 

“I’m unaware that I have to be single to do this.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Steve doesn’t push for an answer, and that’s as it should be, because none of it is of Steve’s God damn business.

 

“And do you have a significant other?” Tony retorts, realising belatedly he should've kept his mouth shut.

 

“No.”

 

  1. No lies, no secrets.



 

“Safewords are there for obvious reasons. We’ll decide on something later when we come to it but more importantly, if it hurts, you tell me. If it gets _uncomfortable_ , you tell me. Doesn’t matter if it’s a sneeze, or an itch, if you think you can’t handle it, tell me.”

 

“What will you do then?”

 

Maybe help him blow his nose? Scratch his back?

 

“Everything stops. Until you’re all right.”

 

“And then?”

 

“Then it’s up to you.”

 

  1. Must honour the agreed upon rules.



 

“These are my only terms. Do you have others to add?”

 

“No. Looks good.”

 

Steve claps his thighs and nods, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. Tony rises after and swears he hears his joints creak. He’s not an ancient relic, by the way, but all the boozing and late nights are starting to get to him – and he doesn’t think disclosing his age contributes anything to their arrangement. And he only realises he’s staring at Steve when Steve deliberately searches his eyes, brows raised.

 

“Yeah,” Tony clears his throat. “Shall we make a move?”

 

Steve follows Tony as they head for the exit, cutting a beeline through Starbucks die-hards. With one hand grasping the door handle, Tony looks back.

 

Steve is still watching him.

 

“Can I add things to the list if I think of something?”

 

There’s a twinkle in Steve’s blue eyes. Blue, Tony sees them now, as they walk into the evening sun. “Sure.”

 

They stand by the curb as Tony waits for a cab that he can flag down. Out here though, Steve stands with a slight hunch in his back, his hands deep in his pockets. He observes the traffic, sometimes the windows of the adjacent stores - in favour of stalking Tony’s every move. Anytime now, if he _stammers_ , Tony swears he’s dropping this guy and start shopping for another Dominant.

 

“How _did_ you find me?” Steve blurts. His voice carries higher as a bike speeds by them. “I’m pretty sure I’ve gone off the... community's radar.”

 

“You’re the only one who e-mails me back.”

 

Steve looks frankly taken aback by that. He huffs, probably muttered something under his breath – Tony can’t lip read, as it were – waves and leaves, and Tony doesn’t think much about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monday blues :(

Another day, another dollar.

 

Like ol’ Hansel, Tony leaves breadcrumbs in his wake as he fumbles with his ID, burnt toast clamped between his lips. He unfurls the lanyard and loops it around his neck, swallows the rest of his breakfast and holds a hand up as he walks pass Rhodey. Good man, he is. He covers Sports. “Tiger puts balls in wrong hole again!” “Colon absorbs another pounding!” Colon is the Angels pitcher, to be clear.

 

He drops into his seat and notices a striking yellow Stick-It post on the right corner of his monitor. It’s from his boss, bless his kind and laconic soul. It says: One month, Stark. Tick tock.

 

He thinks about the structure of what is possibly the last column in his career, his lunch, the hairline crack in his mug – First World problems, he knows – until 3.30 p.m. He texts Steve the hotel address right after he’s made the reservation. And time jets away right after because _now_ it’s 7.30 p.m. – he doesn’t even remember how he got here – and he sits on one of the two single beds that the room comes in.

 

Yes, he booked a double single, what else is there anyway? He brings nothing but himself and the clothes on his back because Steve’s message only contains the proverbial “OK”.

 

Then time stops. Every second feels like a drag. In fact, at this rate, these 30 minutes are going to end up with stretchmarks by the time Steve decides to show up.

 

A curt knock on the door comes up and Tony’s heart skips a beat. He’s expecting that, of course he is. Still he sits on the edge of the mattress. Then the knocks come harder, sharper, and he sees 8 p.m. on his watch.

 

He answers the door.

 

“Hey,” Steve greets. Tony lets him in. He looks around shiftily over Steve’s shoulder, satisfied that the hallway is empty.

 

He should be saying something, shouldn’t he? A how-are-you, how-is-your-day? He throws a nervous smile at his guest and double-locks the door. And words fail him. Vocabularies have utterly abandoned him. Tony Stark is _fantastic_ with people, don’t get him wrong. He nails small talks at conferences and interviews. His questions, acerbic. His wit, endless.

 

He’s also good around dogs.

 

But there’s _something_ about tonight that just throws him off, and Tony thinks his anxiety is very well justified. Steve is taller, measures wider across the shoulders and very likely to pack a good amount of lethal muscles under the white cotton T and chequered flannel jacket that he has on. When he lays the latter on the bed, Tony sees the pocket sag as if something heavy is weighing it down.

 

Please don’t let it be a gun.

 

Steve himself takes some time to observe the room. His eyes train along the walls where they meet the ceiling, then he studies the TV set and the full body length mirror. Tony stands with his back flushed against the door, not quite knowing what to say to break the ice.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Steve says finally.

 

And Tony almost jumps at that.  

 

“What?”

 

“Looks like something you’re thinking about. Or you think you’re thinking it.”

 

“… Are you taking the mickey?”

 

In three short strides Steve reaches a corner and he stands in it. He leans lightly against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and generally looks like it’s the most comfortable spot to be in. There is a wan smile playing on his pale lips, and suddenly Tony feels like in grade school again, onstage for his first ever public speaking. The unpleasant kind where all eyes were on him, _expectant_ and his heart freezes over with fear of what will go wrong.

 

“I’m not touching you tonight, Tony.”

 

There it is again, Tony gulps mentally. Steve’s gaze on him is steady. A predator watching.

 

Tony takes in measured amount of air. He waits. _Steve waits_. Seconds grow into minutes, and Tony finds himself _ruminating,_ that maybe he’s supposed to be doing something, or is Steve waiting for something? He keeps drawing blank, and he starts stealing furtive glances at Steve – who remains resolutely silent and still, in his corner.

 

More minutes march on. And they’re like sedatives this time around. Tony starts to feel the slowing down of his pulse. The fog in his mind clears and the panic that is rising in the back of his throat subsides.

 

Steve watches, and says – and does – absolutely nothing.

 

“All right,” Tony mumbles. Too soft; he can do better. “All right, Steve,” he repeats, stronger. “What do we do now?”

 

Steve is keeping to his corner. Tony knows that now. Sure of it. _Looks like it_ , at least. He can take what’s coming next.

 

“Stand facing me, Tony,” Steve finally says, a deep rumble from his chest. “Take off your shoes. Your socks. Your shirt.” Steve enunciates each word with care and need, his blue eyes trailing the outline of Tony’s form. His eyelids drop and Tony feels a burn around his waist. “Take off your pants.” Steve attention rises to the cuff of his left sleeve. “Your watch.

 

“And keep your eyes on me.”

 

The voice is permeant, the message true. And Tony lifts a hand to his collar.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Oculesics: the study of eye movement, eye behaviour, gaze, and eye-related nonverbal communication. The window to the soul. In Japan, it’s rude for a subordinate to look at their superiors in the eye. In school, students are taught to direct their attention to their teacher’s Adam apple or tie knot. _The New Zealand Medical Journal_ suggests holding eye contact increases the likelihood for children to get mauled by dogs.

 

Eye contact means anything and everything. A gesture of respect. Of acknowledgement.

 

Of threat.

 

Tony makes damn sure he doesn’t blink as he bores into Steve’s unfazed countenance, fingers deftly slipping a button off from its hole, one after another, starting from his throat and working meticulously down to his collarbone, to his sternum, his stomach. Remember that time after a district level basketball tourney in high school? They aren’t particularly flattering moments, but there were twenty boys in various stages of puberty stripping out of their jerseys and catcalling and holding rulers to each other’s dong – yeah, _this is easy_. And Steve is being real gentleman about this. His eyes don’t wander. They hold Tony’s in place.

 

And threads and buttons cannot shield him.

 

Tony is aware – more aware than he should be – of his shirt dangling uselessly off his shoulders. He shrugs it off in one fell sweep. He slips his watch off his wrist and toss it lightly towards the bed. He lowers his hands to the buckle of his belt.

 

Tony bites the inside of his cheeks. He decides he really deserves a scotch if he survives this, so he quickly undoes the metal clip and pulls the belt free from his waist.

 

“You’re an ass,” he says, clipped.

 

Steve lifts his chin slightly.

 

“No rules broken until you tell me to shut up, right?”

 

That tug at Steve’s lips breaks into a half-grin.

 

“Your pants, Tony.”

 

Tony clicks his teeth and pops the button, pulls the zipper down – Steve Rogers _is_ a fucking ass – and finally steps out of the pants. He lets them pool on the floor and wryly thinks how ridiculous he must be looking, standing here in nothing else but his briefs and socks. He lifts his foot to cross it over a knee and hooks a finger around his ankle –

 

“I said, keep your eyes on me.”

 

Tony’s neck snaps up. Steve gives no leeway. He yanks his socks away and entertains the idea of flinging them in Steve’s general direction.

 

Then he’s made painfully aware of the one, last article that’s left clinging to his body. Steve doesn’t hide his deliberate appraisal of Tony’s pelvic regions, objectifying Tony in a way that is frankly, Tony thinks, strange. It’s one thing to have adolescents gawking at each other’s long john, and quite something else for grown men to do the same. Hell, the few women he’d been with had never given him more than two seconds – even then, _only_ when it really matters.

 

He still finds it unsexy.

 

Just get on with the fucking show, right?

 

Tony strips off his briefs and drops it atop the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. No ado, no frills, just him presented as is, feet kept slightly apart. His fists curl and uncurl by his side.

 

Steve snaps onto every inch of bared skin. He doesn’t pretend anymore. He takes his time, scrutinises the dip near Tony’s throat, his lean chest, his flanks, the set of almost-there abdominal packs, down to the jutting hipbone that converges onto a set of impressively flaccid cock and balls. Tony's skin actually crawls when Steve starts _inspecting_ them – _really_ concentrating at it – mapping out the length and girth and sad angle at which it’s flopping at.

 

Goosebumps break out around his neck and thighs. Tony blames the air-conditioning that is five degree too cold for any remote sense of comfort.

 

Is this supposed to be a turn-on? Because Tony can’t tell, and he just got out of work, plus an _hour_ of meeting with the boss, so there are things that rank higher on his Maslow’s hierarchy of needs than a striptease.

 

“Have you showered?”

 

“I’d like to.”

 

“Go have one.”

 

Just like that, Steve motions for him to get into the bathroom. Small mercies. Though it doesn’t abate the confusion, that he’s still trying to wrap his head around the I-say-jump-you-say-how-high mental state – in all seriousness, all these infuriate him to no end – Tony is completely ready to dismount his high horse and accept the shower order as is.

 

Still he shoots Steve a look as he crosses the room to get to the bathroom. He’s aiming for a death glare, the kind that emanates “Don’t you dare come in.”

 

He only realises how understated one’s rights are to privacy and personal space.  

 

Steve fortunately makes no initiative to go beyond shifting his weight onto his other leg. Good boy. Sit, and maybe Tony will consider throwing him a bone.

 

“Keep the door open.”

 

Tony halts, one foot already on the shower mat.

 

“And stand facing me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far so good. The 1000-word-a-day routine is quite manageable. And your support - in all ways - really drive me to keep on working on this. You guys rock!

Tony starts the water. He secretly wishes for it to be arctic cold or hellfire hot, he doesn’t mind the scald _at all_ , so at least he can have a few more seconds to himself adjusting the knobs until it hits just the right temperature. Good ol’ Murphy says you’ve paid good money for a room tonight, let’s have everything run A-OK for once. Perfect. Just perfect. The water is perfect, the shampoo and body wash is just within reach.

 

“Tony.”

 

He’s stood long enough under the torrent for it to reach every nook and cranny of his body. He knows. He feels.

 

“Turn around.”

 

He does.

 

He puts soap in his hair and his body and doesn’t mind the burn in his eyes when shampoo runs down his forehead. He squints and looks away. And it’s all right, because Steve lets him. Tony scrubs himself as he will showering alone, and he thinks this is also all right. He’s not putting on a show. It’s just a shower.

 

For what it’s worth, Steve doesn’t look like he’s entertained either.

 

Thing is, it’s been a long day. Tony’s done reading – guessing, _overthinking_? – Steve’s body language. It can be the fatigue talking, or he’s really stopped caring. Make no mistake, Steve _is_ watching. Guessing? _Overthinking._ It’s all footwork at the moment, bouncing on the ball of their feet, darting forward and backward, teeth bared. Nobody’s throwing punches yet.

Tony scrubs the insides of his ears and the crook of his armpits. Unflattering, but real men shower like this.

 

Tony surmises he’s yet to see Steve as the person he is. Past the Dominant persona, he means. There’s obviously a name and a face to this man who’s currently using all of his 6 feet 2 glorious self to block Tony’s only exit from the bathroom. There’s got to be a family attached to him. Friends. Lovers. Bosses.

 

Steve Rogers is just one man. Does that mean Tony's not getting this right?

 

He can’t do this. _He doesn’t know how._

 

So Steve knows. He has this down pat. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Tony tries to locate that, a sign that tells him he’s right to trust Steve Rogers to teach him the tricks. He figures in the next three seconds, he’ll look up at Steve and there’ll be a man, confident and proud, intimidating and stern in his ways, able to cajole his slave into meeting his every whim.

 

Tony looks up.

 

But Steve isn’t with him anymore. Tony’s done enough interviews to know when he’s lost his target’s attention. It’s that blunt dullness clogging their eyes. They’re looking the right way, but a tad too far. There is distance in the way Steve follows the water trail down Tony’s arm. Not longing, not lusting. Just a deep-settled melancholy, and questions dance on Tony’s tongue.

 

Tony _hates_ not knowing things. And he can’t see past Steve.

 

They’ve been quiet long enough. If he has to spend a minute longer under the shower head, he’ll drown.

 

“Steve?” he tries. He chases the last trickle of water from his lashes.

 

“I assumed, Tony. I should’ve asked. You chose me over a female Dominatrix, and I assume you’re open to this kind of… gender-pairing.”

 

“So you’re asking if I’m straight or not,” Tony cut in, reaching back to turn off the shower. “Does that matter? Or are you asking because this,” he waves casually at his damp cock, “isn’t already standing at attention? Well I’m sorry I’m not a superstar stud capable of getting it up at a moment’s notice. Wait, I _can_ actually. It's not a _clinical_ _issue_ here, but I just don’t get my freak on from having people watch me shower.”

 

And they were progressing so well. Tony’s ready to climb out of the bath tub and slam the door shut.

 

“If this annoys you, you could’ve said stop.” A cupboard opens and closes – Steve is raiding it for freshly laundered towels. “Do you want to stop?”

 

Tony’s eyes narrows. He doesn’t answer.

 

“You forgot your towel.”

 

Steve goes back to cosying up against the doorframe. The white, toasty towel that Tony _should be_ hunting for is tucked snuck in his arm, close to his chest.

 

“Give it, Steve.”

 

“Come here. Take it from me. ”

 

Steve strikes.

 

“Listen. You hide behind your words and you build a wall between _this_ and everything else out there. That is fine. What we’re trying to build _here_ isn’t meant to hurt you. And you seek me out first, don’t forget that. I will crush your defiance, Tony. You will submit.”

 

Steve straightens himself. He’s planted himself firm by the doorway, sealing Tony in.

 

_Submit._

 

A shiver rakes Tony’s naked body. It gets cold. The water is slowly drying off him. He’s cornered right when he feels like he has to run – he _needs_ to run – and it aches to finally understand that control has been stolen from him.

 

“I’m not touching you tonight, Tony,” Steve reiterates. He doesn’t hold the towel out either, and Tony desperately needs the cover. “Come here.”

 

Like baiting a rabbit into a trap.

 

“Take it from me.”

 

Tony _has_ to. He doesn’t want to, and this matters to him.

 

_He doesn’t want to._

 

Tony clambers out of the bathtub with as much grace he can manage. Adrenaline muffles all soundsin his ears. There’s only Steve’s voice, Steve holding his towel ransom, Steve blocking his way out. Steve draws himself to his full height as he _does that again_ , trying to get a read of Tony.

 

Tony snatches the towel from Steve.

 

He breathes.

 

“We’re done for the night. But I need to speak with you before I leave.”

 

Steve needs to speak with him. OK, fair enough, he can do talking. Tony floats over to the bedroom. In the few steps he's taken to sink into the nearest armchair, he’s wrapped the towel around his waist, knotted it too tightly below his navel and decided that he really doesn’t want to have a conversation about what-the-fuck-just-happened.

 

“OK.” The door is just there. He's double-locked it earlier but if he can just make that dash...

 

“How did I do?” Tony flashes him a megawatt grin just shy of giving him a thumb-up. His voice pitches unusually higher.

 

“Are you OK?”

 

Steve picks up his flannel overall and moves to stand in his self-assigned corner. It doesn’t mean anything now, but it does comfort Tony. He nods. It probably doesn’t mean anything either.

 

“I’m having the afternoon off the day after tomorrow.” Steve puts the jacket on. Tony inevitably seeks out the pocket where the not-gun is in. “There’s a great pizza joint down the park, the one with a drive-through and this huge parking lot that overlooks the lake. Sure you know it. We found a body floating off its eastern shore two weeks ago.”

 

Tony snickers. He lays his palms flat on his knees.

 

“I’m thinking if we can grab some lunch together? If you have the time?”

 

Steve practically beams at him. Somewhat abashed even, as if half-expecting Tony to snub his invitation from the get-go.  

 

“It’s just lunch,” he adds quietly.

 

Of course it is.

 

“Sure. Lunch’s good.”

 

What else can it be?


	6. Chapter 6

“Nope, this can’t do, Stark.”

 

“Why? It’s edgy enough, isn’t it?”

 

“It’s plenty edgy all right. It’s an unstoppable downward spiral into the crazies. But the pacing is too _slow._ Nobody is going to hang around long enough without the, uh, bam and whams, you get what I mean?”

 

“Crystal.”

 

“You can always interview more people across, uh, different _kinks¸_ or durations they’ve been dabbling in this… _art form_ …”

 

“You feel like you wanna wash your mouth with a scotch and bleach.”

 

“Damn right I do.”

 

After the uneventful one hour with Steve in that hotel room, Tony actually stayed the night there since he’d already paid for it and all. He had his laptop with him and at first he was going to take the longest shower in his lifetime – because there was an insatiable urge to scrub himself raw and be clean again – when he remembered his deadline for the submission of his very first column was coming up in two days. So he downed all the complementary coffee packs he could find at the minibar and set to work.

 

It was the toughest piece of shit to write, no kidding.

 

He couldn’t include the – as his boss so eloquently phrased – bam and whams because then he would be _lying_ through his teeth. So he embellished whatever he could. Meeting Steve, the roiling apprehension and concerns that led up to the… night. And the actual night itself.

 

Tony had to take another shower after typing out the conclusion paragraph.

 

So his boss didn’t like it. Up his.

 

“Can we speed this up a bit?”

 

“Speed what up?”

 

Tony has no choice but to renegotiate his deal with Steve. He thinks Steve will not mind. Hey, he’s offering a piece of his sweet ass and OK, he admits that he might not be the most desirable fuck buddy out there – which, by the way, he’s _completely_ fine with – but it’s still _free_ sweet ass.

“You know… the _pacing_ of our… activities? All right, you have to excuse me, but I’m gonna have to use a lot of expletives hereon. You remember I told you about the pictures that I looked at before meeting you? I mean doing those things. We haven’t even done a proper _foreplay_ for fuck’s sake, so I don’t even want to mention getting down to actual fucking.”

 

“Tony –”

 

“My boss says if my weekly column is going to be full of drivel like those chick flick novellas, then I might as well surrender my press badge and stop wasting everyone’s time.”

 

“What do you need then?”

 

See? _Free_ sweet ass.

 

“Is there an instant track to this whole shebang?”

 

Steve hesitates. There’s a shuffling of paper on Steve’s side of the phone and he sounds like he’s actually speaking to someone, but everything sounds stifled as if he’s angled his phone away from his mouth.

 

“Yeah, sorry Tony. Please go on.”

 

“Are you working? I can call back later –”

 

“There’s a briefing for a new operation in fifteen minutes, but carry on.”

 

Steve is taking this call from his submissive while he’s in the open, in the _police department,_ obviously surrounded by colleagues, and is pretty chill about it. Know where Tony is? Squatting under the stair well of the _basement level_ – traffic is super low down here because of the lack of air-conditioning – out of hearing distance of every known sentient being crawling in this building.

 

“Introduce me to the better stuff. Tie me up, beat me, whatever.”

 

He’s throwing up a bit in his mouth.

 

“You sure that’s going to sell? I don’t think that’s even allowed in print.”

 

“So you’re going to arrest me? Seriously, we have to do something fast. My boss thinks I’m _interviewing_ people from the community. He’s already asked me to talk to more people of various stages of training.”

 

“I’ve told you I can link you up with some of my friends –”

 

“And I’ve told you I _can’t_ do that. It has to be from _this angle_.”

 

“Sorry, Tony. I can’t do that to you.”

 

“Is this ‘no, you don’t think I can take it”, or ‘no, it’s not your style to rush into things’?”

 

A door closes on Steve’s end. Hah, has he finally grown some sensibility and have this conversation somewhere private? Tony’s back is already drenched with sweat. His knees are starting to cram.

 

“OK, will be there in five. Bring those Agents in too. Better for them to get the skinny now than later.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“No, sorry. I’m going to have to hang up soon, but I’m not changing my mind. I can’t do that to you. Not yet.”

 

“ _Why for fuck’s sake not?”_

 

“Because I’ll have to _arrest myself_ if I do. It _will hurt you_ , Tony. I can’t do that.”

 

Tony puffs, disappointed. The lanyard around his neck with his ID dangling from it suddenly feels heavier.

 

“Is tomorrow’s lunch still on?” Steve asks.

 

“Yeah. You have an op tomorrow?”

 

“No. I can come pick you up at your office. Is 12.15 good?”

 

“Sure. 12.15 it is.”

 

It didn’t work out the way he wanted. Somehow Tony’s rather relieved that Steve isn’t going to bone him anytime soon – he swiftly reminds himself that it is kind of _inevitable._ Chin up, at least he’s got less than a month to figure out how he’s _going_ to be OK with that. But what is the point of doing it the right way if nobody likes his column and it gets shut down anyway? As he walks up the stairs, he wonders if he should get a new – _more willing_ – Dominant. Then he remembers the contract and knows that if he voids it, it’s bye bye Steve.

 

Heaving a sigh, Tony pushes through the fire exit and joins his colleagues in  _yet another meeting_ with the boss.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony bats away Rhodey’s invitation to lunch. It makes a small part inside him curl and shrink, so to the best of his abilities he raps a stream of apologies as he marches to the foyer. Like he said, Rhodey’s a good man. He deserves more than sorry’s and Tony thinks he’ll take him out for sushi next week – if he’s lucky enough to hold onto his badge by then. Still, there’s a more pressing matter at hand besides cold-shouldering a friend; he remembers he hasn’t given Steve his office’s address until two minutes ago. If Steve gets lost, it’s half his fault anyway – Tony’s just a phone call away. Then again, ain’t no real man has to stop and ask for directions, all right? Tony’s already fished out his phone to send a message. As he squints in the sudden burst of midday sunlight, he notices a metallic blue Honda Civic parked on the other side of the road with _Steve_ leaning against the side of the hood, talking on his phone.

 

Tony crosses the road and waves.

 

“Hey,” he greets. Steve nods and ends the call. “Work?”

 

“It never ends. Shall we?”

 

The park is only three blocks down the road. He remembers Justin Hammer – the slimiest colleague he ever has – who was called down to the lake where that body Steve's unit found washed up near the eastern shore. He went down in the early morning, about 8.50 a.m. if Tony remembers it right, and was back by 10 a.m. And boy, he was all soggy with sweat and rumour has it the poor sap had run all the way to the crime scene to get the first scoop – on the boss’ order. Tony has no love for the guy – he means Justin in this context – but for that one day everybody decided to give him a big clap on the back and express some form of sympathy. Tony himself took the opportunity to just punch him square in the shoulders at the exact moment when Justin was drinking coffee.

 

The point is, the park and the lake is within walking distance. Steve’s radio has _Highway to Hell_ wailing from the back speakers and Tony hums to it. It isn’t necessary to leave behind so much carbon footprint to get there, but this is comfort that Tony isn’t going to deny himself having today.

 

* * *

  

“One slice of…?”

 

“Pepperoni.”

 

“Two pepperonis, two coffees, please. Extra cheese on one of them. Thanks.”

 

Tony teeters a tray of steaming hot pizzas and waits under the trees as Steve walks over with their caffeine fix.

 

“D’you eat like this often?” Tony passes over the slice that’s dripping with melted cheese. “You’re really something else. Is your BMR four times higher than the rest of the human population?”

 

“It’s 100% hard work. You know, if you want, I can introduce you to this place where I work out. It’s run by a friend. Maybe I can convince him to get you a special rate.”

 

“Never been… much of a gym guy,” Tony wipes tomato sauce from his chin. “But why the hell not. Health is wealth and all that jazz. Excuse me.”

 

Tony’s phone is going spastic in his pocket and he answers it. It’s a text message – Steve has already gone off looking for the nearest bin – so he reads it.

 

As it is, his boss and _his bosses_ dislike his column, but they’re going to run it in print nevertheless to gauge readers’ response.

 

“Everything OK?” Steve is back. He stands before Tony, hands bracing his waist.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s… uh, fine.”

 

Tony stretches his legs on the tarmac and tilts his head back so that the sun burns his retinas. He is _so_ going to be jobless in a week and a half. Maybe he should go to those people who run Classified and hustle for job openings. Or ask to be transferred to Sports. Bet Rhodey will be happy with the arrangement. From the tail of his eye Tony sees the glint of car keys in Steve’s hands and understands that his companion is probably ready to leave.

 

Tony thinks sitting in this park bench is the greatest idea he’s had all day.

 

Steve reclaims his place beside Tony. He looks far into the lake, his keys having mysteriously disappeared from view. “Where are you from?”

 

Tony turns to Steve. “What?”

 

“Were you born here? In California?”

 

“Long Island, New York. You?”

 

“Brooklyn. I know this is none of my business, but maybe you’d want to take a break? Get refreshed. A change of perspectives might help. When was the last time you went back home anyway?”

 

Huh. Home. Home has never been on his mind for a long, long time.

 

“I left when I was 17. Never been back since.”

 

Steve nods, watches the lake again and goes mystifyingly silent. Probably thinks that he shouldn’t be poking at it even with a ten-foot pole. Not his right to do so. He sits upright without the slightest hint of a slouch, doesn’t even fidget when a butterfly flutters by.

 

Tony sighs.

 

“Look, not everybody is born lucky into an apple pie family, all right? Bet it happens more often than you’d think. You’re the cop anyway. You know the stats. I’m way luckier, in the sense that… I’ve got a deadbeat dad and an absent mom. Dad loved his boozing so much he gave me my first vodka when I was seven, thinking it’s the best birthday gift a father can ever give his son. There’s a bunch of time where he knocked me around the house, but yeah, like I said, it’s nothing unusual. It’s fine.”

 

“It’s not, Tony.”

 

“Yeah? Well guess what? I don’t care about that anymore. It’s been what – 18 years. That’s a long time for anybody to forget things. And they’re dead anyway, so.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Car crash,” Tony replies curtly with a tone of finality that warns Steve to stop asking questions. It’s a scab he’s not itching to peel. And he swears if Steve doesn’t drop it, he can’t guarantee he’s not going to start throwing punches.

 

“Shall we?” The car keys are back in his hands again. Tony obliges this time.

 

No more words are exchanged between both men as they amble to Steve’s car. Gravel crunch beneath their feet with each step. It is morbidly satisfying, especially if Tony imagines them as remnants of his journalistic career, all torn apart into bits.

 

“Steve, I really do need to pick up the pace quite a bit. I’m gonna lose this job if I don’t.”

 

They get into the car. Steve doesn’t reply, but his expression grows grim and Tony figures maybe there’s a chance for him to convince Steve to agree to his prepositions after all. Steve starts the air-conditioning. The gear remains in neutral.

 

“Look, I love my job. Part of why I choose to become a journalist is because I want to reach out to the voiceless slice of the community. To be their mouthpiece. Shine some light on their plights. But the system is made in such a way that _prevents_ me doing my job right, and before I earn that freedom to do _what’s right_ , I need to be able to first keep this badge. And this is crucial. If the readers give me miserable feedbacks, I’ll be losing –”

 

Then, it’s a tornado of sensations. Tony feels like he’s left his entrails on the floor and all the air has been forcibly pumped out of his lungs. He’s inexplicably _horizontal_ , lying flat on his back. The lake, the trees, and the parking lot in his view has been replaced with the grey felt of the underside of the roof, and Steve is hovering above him. His thick arms are resting on either sides of Tony’s head, holding him up.

 

Tony’s heart literally skips a beat. Before he knows it, he’s reaching up, pushing hard against Steve’s chest who just won’t _budge_ , and he’s pinned into his own seat in a claustrophobic, pocket of space underneath Steve.

 

“Get off me!”

 

Steve shoves a knee between Tony’s thighs, effectively holding him in place. Positively panicking, Tony scrambles for the door. But Steve gets there first; he flicks the lock on, Tony’s fingers a desperate scrabble on his knuckles.

 

“Stop, Tony. Stay still!”

 

“Why the _fuck_ would I – let go!”

 

“You want me to go along at your pace, don’t you?”

 

Steve leans in. Tony looks away and holds his breath in as he feels Steve’s skate across his cheek.

 

“Let me show you.”


	8. Chapter 8

“ _Shit_ – you couldn’t’ve warned me three seconds beforehand?”

 

Steve caresses the side of Tony’s neck. He feels the racing pulse under his palm, sees the bobbing of Tony’s throat. He ghosts a thumb over a vein, and notes how Tony keep his gaze fixed sideway on the buckle of his seatbelt. Emboldened, Steve lowers his hand to brush against the un-ironed collar of Tony’s button-up shirt. There’s a dip between the exposed collarbones that seems somewhat inviting, so Steve runs a finger down it.

 

Tony clenches his jaws and fights hard to keep still and pliant.

 

Steve stoops until his lips rest above Tony’s earlobe. “Your safeword?”

 

Tony’s breaths are coming out shallow. Steve pulls back – not much, still close enough for Tony to feel his heat radiate through so many layers of clothes.

 

“Tony?”

 

Steve’s large hand closes over his shoulder. Tony blinks.

 

“If it gets too much, tell me. Be quiet otherwise. Do you understand?”

 

He nods.

 

The death grip on his shoulders lifts. Steve lets it roam the expanse of his chest, ironing it through the faded fabric. Tony grapples blindly for an anchor – something to hold on to as he lies there and _take it_ – and he resigns to clutching the handbrake. He grips it hard when Steve flicks at his nipple.

 

“Domination and submission is much more than sex, Tony.” Idle circles, deliberately unabashed. “It doesn’t always have to end with sex.” Steve fiddles with the topmost button. Deftly he pops it off, and the next three. “Doesn’t have to be titillating. But the human psyche is a strange thing. People derive pleasure from…” Steve leans down again, and Tony inhales deeply. “ _Subjugation_. It’s like people _want_ to surrender control to another.” Steve pulls the shirt apart. The edge of his lips tip upward, a sardonic smirk that stabs right through Tony in the guts. He kisses at what bare skin available to him, with parched lips that feel rough against the flesh.

 

“Remember what you asked of me, Tony.”

 

It’s a reminder he does not need. He’s more than furious with himself – even if he cannot stand to admit it – that whatever he’s getting is exactly what he’s asked for. He’s burning, raging on the inside because _Steve’s right_. It’s all on him.

 

“You ask me to tie you up, beat you, and _fuck you._ ”

 

Tony gasps when Steve’s fingers coast southward between his thighs. He jerks in his place and tightens his hold on the brake. He can end this. He can end this now. He just has to say the word. Just _one word_.

 

Steve kneads the flesh with a feverish need. Tony feels it hardening in spite of himself – it’s entirely biological, he argues. But why is he refusing this?

 

“It takes God damn _trust_ to have another to touch you so intimately.”

 

 _He doesn’t want it._ At all. Not like this.

 

Steve undoes the button and pulls the zipper down. Tony hasn’t had the chance to protest when that large, warm hand slips through the opening and cups him.

 

“This is what you want, Tony. Isn’t it? As you asked.” Steve wraps his hand around the rigid shaft as much as he can through the material and strokes. “You’re shaking. Does it really feel that good?” Steve climbs up and places himself at Tony’s eye level. “Or do you feel violated?” he hisses. “It isn’t discipline, what you asked of me.”

 

Tony’s head is spinning. There is no air.

 

Steve hooks his fingers under the gutter of the briefs. He pulls it down.

 

“It’s rape.”

 

“Stop,” Tony bit out. _There is no air!_ “Please, stop.”

 

Steve draws himself up instantly, leaving a gush of cold air in his wake. He returns to the driver seat and promptly drops an oversized black coat over Tony who’s looking halfway to a full-blown shock. Steve unlocks the doors next and that’s it, the click of freedom to reboot Tony’s senses.

 

He more than flings himself to the door and falls over onto the tarmac.

 

“Tony!”

 

Tony can’t move. Any limbs waist down aren’t cooperating and he flops to his butt, leaning heavily against the car door. There’s air here, so he focuses on _just breathing_. Steve is close by, he senses that. He’s also well aware of the state of debauchery he’s in, what with his shirt hanging half-opened around the chest and his trousers completely undone. He brings his knees up and pulls the coat tightly around his shoulders.

 

Steve idles near the hood. Close enough to keep Tony in sight, far enough to not freak him further.

 

“Sorry,” Tony whispers. His voice grates like sandpaper on his throat.

 

“Are you OK?”

 

“Yeah. Give me… just a minute.”

 

He’s going to throw up.

 

“Can you stand?”

 

Tony only grips his coat tighter. From afar, a couple of gardeners are eyeing them keenly. Steve doesn’t like how one of them is jabbing his finger animatedly at Tony.

 

“Calm down. I’m going to help you up, OK?”

 

Steve grabs Tony by the biceps – firm and clinical – and inserts him into the adjacent seat. Now back on the road, the traffic is light and the drive is smooth, but the atmosphere has never felt denser. Steve steals a glance or two at his passenger – always via the rear-view mirror. The black coat lies uselessly in a bundle in Tony’s laps. It’s only when the traffic slows to a crawl as they approach the red light that Tony stirs and redirects his attention to the little toy soldier that Steve’s stuck to the dash.

 

“Can I add something to our contract?”

 

Steve pulls the gear back to neutral.

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

“One, can I have some – any, warning or signs – before you… you know…”

 

Steve tightens his hold on his steering wheel. “OK.”

 

“And two,” Tony starts to absentmindedly pick at his cuticles. “No sex.”

 

The light turns green. Steve pushes into the first gear and the car rolls into motion.

 

“It’s, uh… if this troubles you,” Tony continues, and inwardly heaves a sigh of relief as his office building comes into view, “we can stop? I understand that it gets… unfair… in the long run, I think – yeah, you can stop here. Thanks for the ride.”

 

“Tony.”

 

Steve grabs Tony around his forearm before he can make his getaway. The door remains unlocked. And the grip on him isn’t forceful enough to stay him in his seat.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Steve doesn’t look like he’s convinced. Tony sure isn’t going to even try.

 

“OK,” Steve acquiesces nevertheless. “I accept your terms.”

 

Then, Tony lets himself out. He runs.


	9. Chapter 9

_Subjugation, was what he said to me._

_There’s nothing natural about a person switching between personalities. I call it schizophrenia. Mr S is positively not one, but that he does – switching facades with absurd ease. It’s befuddling, really, but is that not the very nature of domination/submission? Roleplaying. People coming together honouring a contract…_

Tony highlights the entire text and stabs “Delete” on his keyboard. He tries again.

 

_I come unprepared. There are no thorough studies on the subject matter, no preformed expectations before penning my name down on the contract. I trust Mr S to literally show me the ropes. Forget about what you’ve read in the books, what you’ve watched on the screens. There’s nothing sensual or dramatic about this. It takes time and effort to hone the skills. Passion that has to be kept in check with comprehension of what’s practical and not._

_There is no one Master or Slave in this partnership. Equality is key._

_Trust is…_

Tony’s knuckles lock into a fist. Cold. Unfeeling. He pinches the bridge of his nose and wills his escalating headache away. The second column is _not_ coming up nicely. He can’t recall that incident without feeling a chill up his back, or Steve’s chest a tangible shadow upon his.

 

Steve hasn’t contacted him in three days.

 

Tony gives up working. The digital clock on his desk blinks a luminescence green of 2.15 a.m. He wipes off the wall of text that he’s spent the past hour typing and saves that empty document.

 

He hates open-ended stories, he tells himself and imagines this tiny voice in his brain to be as scathing and as megalomaniac as it can be. As he walks across the foyer, he puts up a high-five to the security guard in his booth. Yeah, options are cool, as cool as the midnight he’s just emerged into. As if living life is not rough enough, if it’s something that can be _controlled_ , or manipulated to sway to his preference, why not. He likes them structured. An intriguing exposition – the appetiser – a climax that challenges the _status quo_ – the main course – and an aromatic, delicately chilled tiramisu…

 

Tony remembers he hasn’t eaten anything beyond two butter croissants for breakfast.

 

He picks his cell phone up and dials for Steve Rogers. They’re two completely unrelated events of course, and Tony isn’t all that sure what he’s doing until Steve answers the call in two beeps.

 

“Tony?”

 

“Hey,” he replies woodenly. It just dawns on him that Steve sounds awfully alert for the time.

 

“Can’t sleep?”

 

Excuse his delightful social call – which is not going to have content of any import – at 2 in the fucking morning.

 

“I just left the office, actually. It’s wonderfully airy tonight. Think I might fancy myself a midnight stroll. Have you by any chance bought our papers last Friday? There’s the first column in there. No names, as promised. If it’s not obvious enough, you’re Mr S.”

 

He’s talking too much, and Steve’s so quiet over there.

 

“Listen,” Tony presses the phone closer to his mouth. “I’m… shall we continue where we left off?”

 

“There’s no hurry, is there? A cooling down period will be good for you –”

 

“I don’t have _time_ for cooling down.”

 

Tony imagines Steve’s face crumple just as the words evacuate his lips. When they’re miles apart connected by two mouthpieces, yeah, he can pull all these macho talk – easy peasy – that no matter how heavy-handed Steve goes on him, he’ll shrug it all off and walk away fine.

 

As long as Steve doesn’t call him out on his bullshit, that is.

 

“Tony, this has nothing to do with – with your _constitution_. If we go about this the wrong way, it’ll ruin you.”

 

Something in Tony _snaps._

“Really? That’s rich coming from you. Last time I checked it was _you_ who held me down and threatened _rape_ –”

 

“I’m not going to apologise for what I’ve said, if that’s what you’re looking for. Start running your mouth again and there will be further consequences.”

 

“Oh, you son of a – don’t talk to me – you _agreed_. No Dom-talk without warning me _first_ –”

 

“I’m not talking as your Dominant,” Steve sighs, a thin veil of weariness betraying his voice. “What you wanted was _demeaning._ All right, enough. It’s late, Tony. You should head back and rest.”

 

“Wait!”

 

And all he hears is Steve’s rhythmic and near quiet breathing through the earpiece.

 

“We should meet up at least. Can’t leave things hanging forever, can we?”

 

Tony half-expects Steve to wish him goodnight and hang up regardless.

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

Well, that… is a great question. Tony has no freaking idea. Since they’re already walking the line of spontaneity…

 

“You said you were going to introduce me to this gym that your friend is running.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you fucking with me, Stark?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“This… fetid draft I’m reading… are you _serious?”_

“Will I waste both of our time bringing this in if I wasn’t?”

 

“Jesus. This makes me want to either confess my sins or gouge my eyes out with a spork. No, Stark. It’s a fucking newspaper article! Nobody needs to know the grimy details of the affairs – just, get out! Clean it up and give it to me by tomorrow evening.”

 

“Yes, sir…”

 

Tony strolls over to the water cooler and fills up a paper cup. Rhodey is there too, and upon seeing Tony’s flushed appearance, as stated in the bro code he nods in silent understanding and raises his own paper cup in a toast.

 

“To surviving yet another encounter with the boss-man.”

 

Tony’s lips stretches tightly across his face and hopes it doesn’t remind Rhodey of a hyena.

 

“Read your column last week, man. Pretty interesting, if you ask me. That’s a bucketload of crazies you’re trying to unravel, hell of a challenge. Gunning for a promotion, are you? Or at least a pay raise?”

 

“I’ll be lucky if you still see my punch card beside yours by the next month. You know what, if my second column turns out OK, let’s have sushi for dinner?”

 

“Only if you’re treating.”

 

* * *

 

Tony would’ve clocked out by 5 p.m. and ended the day rather uneventfully, if it weren’t for a text from Steve that he almost misses reading.

 

_AnyTime Fitness, 1900 Douglas Blvd Suite 204. 8 p.m.?_

Tony doesn’t believe in paying good money to book himself into strenuous physical torture. It’s like paying good money to get terrorised on a roller coaster. If he’s got extra money in his account to carry forward, it’s going into his traveling jar. He’ll pay to see the world.

 

So, screw gyms.

 

And let’s get real. Imagine doing sit-ups right next to Steve Rogers.

 

It’s really too late to back out now, and isn’t this his idea in the first place? Goodness, he’s got to stop doing this, making decisions on the fly, roping Steve into it and eventually regretting it when it’s already too late.

 

“Tony! Heading home?” Rhodey has somehow materialised behind him just as he was exiting the office. “I can give you a ride.”

 

“I’m going down to the gym for a bit.”

 

“ _You_? The _gym_? Well, better keep your windows close or else the pigs are gonna fly in!”

 

Tony’s silver Chevrolet is his bachelor pad. It’s also a second-hand, $7 800 worth of mobile, personal space which is absolutely fantastic. Sure, the air-con condenser is as leaky as a sieve and the oil needs changing more often than necessary, but she’s still the love of his life, has been and always will be. The trunk is where all the good stuff is. It’s where Tony manages to fish out his swimwear and some jerseys in a duffel bag that’s been there since his Pacific Coast Highway road trip.

 

Tony parks his car in the basement and sends Steve another message: _I’m here, let me know when you’ve reached._

 

“Mr Stark?” the lady at the counter greets. She ducks out of sight to retrieve what looks like a scrap of paper with things written on in blue ballpoint pen. “Your friend leaves you a message.”

 

_Locker room #2-01. S._

 

“Hmm, isn’t he your friend too?”

 

“You can take the staircase up. To the left, if you will.”

 

“All right, keep all your little secrets…”

 

The gym is exactly what he’d imagined it to be at 7.30 p.m. on a Tuesday – as crowded as a church on a non-Sunday. There are only two locker rooms in the entire complex really, separated by gender and Tony tosses Steve’s note in the next bin he locates.

 

He finds Steve on the second floor easily enough.

 

The locker room is spacious and well-lit with rows of fluorescence lights installed into the walls. Steve is sitting straight-backed on one of the benches that are arranged in such a way that they split the floor space into two halves. He has a towel draped around his neck and he’s perusing his phone, his thumb swiping quite furiously across screens.

 

Tony frowns. There’s something else besides the agitation, too. The plain short-sleeved T that Steve has on does nothing to hide a hideous splotch of black on blue on the side of his biceps.

 

“What happened to you?”

 

Steve’s thumb pauses in its track. He looks up, the gentle glow of the phone screen illuminating his somewhat pale countenance.

 

“Glad you found you way here all right.”

 

“That looks new,” Tony narrows his eyes. “Don’t you need to get it dressed?”

 

Steve looks like he’s about to argue, or deflect the questions with something, only to come up with nothing. He shuts his mouth and flips his phone into his bag.

 

“Come on. Want to hit the treadmill?”

 

Right. If Steve wants to be like that…

 

“We can do better, can’t we? I propose we up the stakes a bit. Let’s do the Iron Man challenge.”

 

Tony’s nostrils flare as he says that. He’s chest swells with pride, his ego inflates. Why, he makes sure he’s taken some dinner before he comes in. He has all the sugar and caffeine a man ever needs to ace an Iron Man challenge.

 

Steve laughs. His teeth are showing – pearly white and arranged in two perfect rows – the sound of goodness that cheers the souls. When he surveys Tony again, he speaks softly almost as if to himself, “You’re not joking, are you?”

 

“Just wondering if all your muscles are only for show.”

 

“Hey, I’m more than game. But not because you’re goading me. We can start with running, then weight lifting and wrap it up with swimming.”

 

Tony scratches at the hint of stubbles under his chin. Remember what he says about yapping too much without filtering the words with his brain, and only realising how deeply buried he is in shit when it’s _too late_?

 

Yeah, this is another such moment.

 

Good God, Tony Stark. An idiot in the making.


	11. Chapter 11

They lower themselves onto the mat.

No hanky panky, just a light warm-up session before someone ends up really hurt. And like it’s something that comes so naturally to Tony, he drops to his knees right before Steve, whose expression just sours instantaneously as he reaches down to grip Tony by the elbow. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Uh, sit-ups right?” Tony frowns. He points at the mat. “I can hold your feet down as you go first.”

Steve’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Frankly, it confuses and scares Tony a bit. 

“Is something the matter?”

“No. No, sorry.” Steve sits on the mat and gestures for Tony to sit too, looking away as he does. “OK, let me teach you a trick. Back at the barrack, some 113 of us at any one time, we had to do push-ups, sit-ups, what have you before we go for our run.”

“113?”

“Yeah, drill sergeant had us paired up for our warm-ups, and we’d do sit-ups at the same time. Here, sit closer – no, raise your legs, bend your knees – OK, lock your feet with mine.”

“What happen to the last guy?”

“He got the drill sergeant.”

They sit on the blue rubber mat near the treadmills, lock their ankles with each other’s and place their fists beside their ears. The first ten sit-ups Tony comes up feeling good, working at the same tempo as Mr Perfection. They use their momentum to hold each other down, and Steve even gives him a smirk as Tony comes up for his twelfth. Then his abs start to ache, his back starts to tire, and his timing gets thrown out of the window. He doesn’t see Steve anymore when he comes up, only a sliver of Steve’s lower abdominal muscle flexing from where his shirt rides up during the exertion. 

Steve blazes through thirty sit-ups with ease. Tony feels like a broken engine revving with black smoke spitting out of the exhaust, trying to climb uphill. 

He finishes thirty too. Eventually.

“Doing OK there?”

“Shut your face,” Tony pants, wiping his brows with the back of his hand. “This beats sitting up to the drill sergeant, though. So what’s next?”

“Treadmill. On slow.”

Tony nods and claims the treadmill nearest to him. 

Running is boring. It’s just him and the track under his feet, and the drone of the machine – this is where a Black Sabbath album on shuffle is most welcomed. Steve stares out of the glass window that overlooks the rest of the city, his irises clear and focused. Tony has some friends in the police station – that’s where he gets some of the latest feeds (and so, the earliest scoop) – but he rarely, if ever hangs out with them past office hour. In fact, what little contact he has with them is restricted to fifteen minutes over donuts and coffee, and a quick swipe of Post-It notes under the table.

Which means, Tony doesn’t understand how a cop’s mind work. Steve doesn’t behave quite like one. There’s an air of intensity and ultra-discipline about him. How his back is always too straight for comfort – not a hint of everyday slouch visible – his steps on point with purpose, his attention razor-sharp on his surroundings. There’s something military about him, but as much as Tony wants to find out, he figures it’s really none of his business, and he’ll probably just wait until Steve decides to tell him himself.

Tony pops his knuckles as he continues his run. “Which company did you serve in?”

“3rd Squadron, 4th Cavalry, of the 2nd Infantry Division.” Steve hits “Stop” and gets off the treadmill. “Kosovo, 1999.”

“Jesus. How old are you?”

“Right. That’s the first thing that comes to your mind? My age?”

Tony gets off the treadmill himself. He’s still feeling the inertia in his body, not quite used to being stationary with both feet planted on firm ground.

“Mental calculation tells me that you’ve got to be… mid-40s by now. You… well, look a bit too much on the young side.”

“Mm. Sounds like a story for another time.”

“Really?”

“Maybe.”

Steve walks over to a rack of barbell and lifts one with two black discs on either sides of it. He nods for Tony to come closer, and promptly lays it near Tony’s feet. Then he steps away and watches Tony from nearby, his arms tuck across his chest. Groovy, Tony scoffs silently as he sweats it out on the mat, lifting the kilograms worth of torment until his veins feel like they’re popping. From the tail of his eyes he sees Steve half-cradling the ugly bruise on his biceps. 

“Is it hurting?” Tony asks as casually as he can. Steve immediately pockets his hands and shrugs. “What’s the story behind that?”

And kudos to Steve for being able to portray so many emotions on his face, proof that he’s not the stone cold Ken doll Tony often mistake him for. Steve looks like he’s seriously torn between telling the truth or blatantly ignore Tony’s request. 

Tony continues lifting his stupid weights.

“I fell off the stairs.”

Tony fingers almost slip off the handle.

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say so. I’m not an idiot, Steve.”

Steve crosses his ankles and leans into the barbell rack.

“There was a botched robbery at the convenience store down Southwood Drive. Guy had a fake gun on him, and we had ours out. He surrendered, but just as we were trying to cuff him, he grabbed a baseball bat from under the counter and took a swing.”

“Huh? Never heard of that incident – is this recent? Wait, of course it is. That nasty looks fresh. Why isn’t this –”

“Robber is the son of a Senator. We were told –”

“So now the police is hiding truths from the public? Because some Senator’s son pulls a gun on you while robbing some stores and it doesn’t matter?”

Tony really does let go of the barbell this time. The discs hit the mat with a resounding thud, a wave of metallic tremble cascading along the length of the handle. He stills himself and takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, you don’t deserve that.”

Steve throws his towel over his shoulder and heads for the swimming pool. _Think, Stark, think!_ is all Tony can chastise himself with as he sees Steve walk away from him. Yet to his amusement, Steve looks back and beams at him.

“If it means anything at all, it’s journalists like you that gives hope to us.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Just FYI, Steve: if you do the doggy paddle, I don’t know you.”

 

“Says the guy hugging the ladder. Want me to get you a floater?”

 

“I can swim.”

 

“What are you waiting for then?”

 

One impressive splash and a minute and a half later, Steve is already on the other end of the Olympic-sized pool. Tony eases himself into the generously chlorinated water and dunks his head under. His eyes are going to end up bloodshot but all that is worth it, having seeing Steve split through the water from his vantage point in what looks like the most aerodynamically aesthetic manner. It's as if water has no mass at all. Fluid glistens off Steve's back, over the rippling muscles with grace and allure. By the time Tony resurfaces, Steve has already completed a lap and he floats over, barely out of breath.

 

“Can you actually swim?” Steve blinks stray water droplets from his eyes.

 

Three years ago, a car nosedived into a lake – _the lake_ , as it were, the very same one where Steve’s unit found _that_ body washed up ashore – and it took the entire family of three with it. Water was filling up the cavity fast and their little girl was still holding onto her Snoopy as she banged on the window, crying for help. Not a moment too soon, passer-by jumped into the lake and used a crowbar to smash the windscreen and pull them all back to safety. Tony knows all this because he was the first one who swan-dived into the bottom of the lake with the crowbar.

 

As contrived as it sounds, it did happen. It even made it to page 3 the following day and no names were mentioned save for the victims'. Not that Tony is bitter about being reduced to “one of the four good Samaritans had a crowbar with him – a fortuitous moment for the family”.

 

And somehow or rather, Tony just can’t bring himself to immerse his entire body in large body of liquids since that day.

 

“It's fine if you can’t swim.”

 

Nobody believes the story anyway. It’s a heroic tell, and Tony Stark is no hero.

 

Gingerly, Tony pushes himself away from the ladder. He propels himself into the water, feels the friction in his hair and face and he turns. He goes under, drowning all sounds from his surrounding as he tucks his limbs close to his body and flagellates in rhythm.

 

It’s been _so long_.                                                                                                

 

He only remembers he’s a mammal when his lungs start to feel too constricted for comfort.

 

“Not bad,” Steve slow claps from afar, and Tony crosses over the short distance in a few breaststrokes.

 

“It’s not a complete lap, but it’s been _years_ since –”

 

Steve closes a vice grip over Tony’s shoulders and _pulls._ Utterly taken aback by the force, Tony stumbles forward – before his face hits the wall point-blank, Steve wheels him around and holds him there, back flush against the cool tiles.

 

Steve is standing so close to him their noses almost touch.

 

“Permission?”

 

“What the _hell_ , Steve -”

 

Steve leans purposely into him, his lips pressing over the shell of Tony’s ears.

 

“You heard me, Tony. What will it be?”

 

Tony’s heart goes from baseline white-male-who-doesn’t-exercise-enough seventy-beats-per-minute to a full-scale tachycardia in under three seconds and his eyes dart all over the place where Steve’s hulking body does not encompass.

 

“My lady friend will return in fifteen minutes. You’ll want this to be done and over with by then.”

 

Steve rests both palms flat against the tiles on either sides of Tony’s head. A glint goes off in his eyes.

 

" _Permission_ , Tony."

 

_Shit, shit, shit._

 

Water drips from his bare shoulders. He remembers the shower, the car – he remembers them all vividly. He’s _supposed_ to be unafraid now, he reminds himself that, because he thinks he can trust Steve to not jump him - hurt him -at his whim and fancy. He trusts Steve to preserve the option for him to walk away freely _if_ he says the word. Steve has proven himself this much. 

 

"Yes..."

 

“I want to see you,” Steve’s words are but a whisper over his ear. “I want to see you _lost_ , Tony. So caught up in yourself. In your desires.”

 

“I don’t think I –”

 

“Touch yourself. Let me see you.”


	13. Chapter 13

For a wild second, Tony’s brain won’t compute the instructions. He hears _touch_ – oh.

 

“You out of your mind?” he hisses. “This is a public area! Anyone can walk in on us!”

 

“Not anyone, only my friend. And she’ll return in fifteen minutes. Thirteen, actually.”

 

“You _can’t_ be serious.”

 

“Do you want my assistance, perhaps?”

 

“Touch me, and I’ll kill you.”

 

Steve _chuckles_ , and it’s irritating. It’s playful and abashed, and when Steve finally collects himself, he smiles that serene smile and waits. The nerve on him.

 

They’ve been standing around in the water for quite some time that it’s leeching under Tony's skin and making him all wrinkly. Hesitantly, he shifts a hand over his crotch. The effect is instantaneous; the surrounding water feels warmer about his hips. He’s slowly boiling from inside out, and he wonders if Steve, too can feel the heat radiating off him. He grips his cock through the flimsy swimming trunk, all the while staring daggers at Steve. It costs him every, last bit of dignity. _That’s right_ , _look me in the eye, asshole._

 

Tony feels biology working its magic and his shaft is rigid enough to peek out of the gutter.

 

“This is… really unhygienic. You sure about this?”

 

“Ten minutes.”

 

Tony bites the insides of his cheeks and with it, his next flurry of protests.

 

That’s when something creeps up his thigh. Tony flaps about, sending waves of water around them because there’s a _thing_ in it and it’s being too friendly with his legs –

 

“Relax,” Steve sighs. Tony yelps when hands – Steve’s _hands_ – snake around his buttocks and start kneading his flesh. They slip under the sodden material.

 

“Steve –”

 

“Thought you needed some encouragement?”

 

“ _No_ , I don’t, would you stop that –”

 

“You can do better, Tony…”

 

Steve parts his butt cheeks and fuck, water flows into areas that should _never_ be waterlogged, and Tony shudders at the sensation. He leans deeper into the wall of the swimming pool and presses Steve’s intrusive hand against it. Tony  _does not_ appreciate another man’s palms cupping the globe of his bottom. He turns a shade redder and swears.

 

“Nice try. Last chance, or I’ll do you myself.”

 

Tony readjusts his grip on his cock - skin on skin - and tightens his hold around his girth. That sends a spark up his lower abdomen and he lets his head fall back onto the wall with a thud. He pumps himself, feels his lower half _clench up_ , and he closes his eyes. He blocks out Steve – doesn’t work – and imagines the burning trail on his neck where he knows Steve’s eyes just roamed. His breathing goes ragged and his hand pistons between them like a limb possessed. He swallows, and dislikes how dry his throat and tongue has become.

 

It’s also getting too hot down there, just over the tip of the cock that’s already red with abuse. It’s too much, and only now is he aware of the little gasping sounds slipping through his teeth. He’s close. He can’t help it, a fucking moan spills from his lips and his eyes blink open. Steve’s hunger is etched all over his face and Tony can’t spare a second of thought to decide if he should feel objectified, or not – _doesn’t matter_ …

 

Tony comes, warmth and wetness spewing out of the tip of his cock. Semen swirls in chlorinated water, a stain between both men as Tony hunches over, absolutely ravished by the aftermath. He’s standing, or floating, and his now flaccid cock sags between his legs.

 

Great. Done. Fin.

 

“Satisfied?” he mutters as he pulls his swimming trunk up.

 

“You and me both.”

 

“You’re an ass…”

 

Steve’s gym-operator-cum-friend did drop by soon after. Fortunately, by then Tony already has his towel around him and gained some semblance of normalcy. He’s still a bit flushed in the face but swimming does that to people, too, so. Back in the privacy of the locker room, Tony all but collapses into a bench and cradles his head in his hand.

 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Steve takes a seat beside Tony. He leaves a respectable distance between them, and Tony slowly lifts his chin.

 

“No.” Even Tony is surprised by his own admission. “No, it wasn’t.”

 

Steve tosses a water bottle over which Tony catches in mid-air. He welcomes the break of awkwardness. All the better to have something to do with his hands. He uncaps the bottle and downs everything in one go.

 

“There’s a stake-out my unit is going to be involved in this coming Friday. The Feds are in it too, so that’s quite an effort – no, I can’t say anything more, it’s P and C – what I’m saying is, I can only see you Saturday night, earliest. I’m sorry, it’s a little sudden –”

 

“Don’t sweat it.” Tony twists the empty bottle into a husk of useless plastic. “Saturday night is cool.”

 

“Do you want to come over for dinner?”

 

That gets Tony’s attention.

 

“My place.”

 

“You sure? Whatever happened to personal safety and security?”

 

Steve dips into the side pocket of his duffel bag and pulls out a name card. Tony squints under the too-glaring fluorescent lights and reads  _Lieutenant Steve Rogers_ printed across it. There’s his office landline, address and e-mail, and on the back is another set of address – handwritten with a black fountain pen, located in the suburb.

 

Steve looks at Tony expectantly.

 

“Sounds like a plan.”


	14. Chapter 14

It’s a Thursday. It used to mean _Thor’s Day_ in ancient English. Or _dies Jovis –_ Day of Jupiter – in Latin. _Hemera Dios,_ Day of Zeus in ancient Greek. To Tony, it’s sushi day.

 

“Hey, watch the colour, man. Ain’t paying for the reds.”

 

“You’re my best friend, Tony, but you’re one hell of a cheapskate.”

 

“OK. I got a new goal in life. I want to make enough dough to _not worry_ about the colour of my sushi plates.”

 

“Mm. Achievable ambitions.”

 

Tony raises his cup of warm sake and says, “ **Here’s to my awesome readers for their awesome reviews and support** , and thanks to them, I get to keep my job, and because I’m a man of my word, I’m paying for our sushi binge today!”

 

“Amen to that.”

 

Rhodey lifts another red plate of spicy _aburi maguro_ and salmon roll from the conveyor belt as Tony drains his cup dry.

 

“How many people do you actually interview for the story?”

 

Uh-oh.

 

“Sorry, no sharing of trade secrets.”

 

“Come on, dude.”

 

“Several, OK?”

 

“So do you… you know, how do you do it? You ask them out for lunch or something, and interrogate these poor souls for details? Or do you go round their secret sex torture dungeons and have a looksee yourself? I mean, _damn_ , that’s –”

 

“Stop, Rhodey. You’re making it sound weird.”

 

“I don’t mean to offend –”

 

“Point is,” Tony pours more sake into his cup, “the story sells. The end.”

 

Tony has fan letters. For the first time in his miserable life, he has _fan letters._ OK, calling them fans may be overdoing it, but they’re his readers, and they _write back_ to tell him how much they love his column. And OK, love is too strong a word. It’s probably more like they read it, and they don’t think it suck as bad. The latest stuff that just got published two days ago explores, in essence, the significance of respect, trust and boundaries between the Dom and his Sub. And interestingly enough, people claim _they can relate_. Tony supposes in a dog eat dog world where the many layers of societal hierarchies actually define who and what we are – yeah, no surprise there.

 

Or, there are just way too many kinky weirdoes this side of America.

 

“I got some tickets to the game this Saturday. Want to come along?”

 

“Oh… no man, sorry. I got something on this weekend.”

 

Rhodey snorts into his _chawanmushi_. “Are you… meeting your _informants_?”

 

“No comment. Unbelievable...”

 

Though the column seems to be doing all right and not in any immediate danger of premature termination, it presents _yet_ another issue. Well, it’s not an _issue_ issue per se, but Tony has just come to realise that he’s gathering too much information, more than he can ever fit in one-month run of his column. And it’s not just the bulk of information; the higher-ups have made it clear to keep everything PG13, and given the very nature of this column, it also means that a large proportion of the available material ends up in the Recycle Bin.

 

“Tony, your phone’s beeping.”

 

“Huh?”

 

It’s a message: _Saturday, 6 p.m. Chinese for dinner sounds good?_

 

Steve’s.

“Excuse me, got to take this…”

 

“No problem.”

 

He types back: _OK. I can collect the takeout on my way there._

Rhodey takes a sip of green tea. The edge of his lips that’s visible quirks up in a grin, and Tony tuts. His phone beeps again almost immediately.

 

 _No need. I’m cooking_. _See you._

Tony mentally counts the number of times they’ve… met. Been together. Only four, and they’re just the beginning of many more. Yep, and none of which can actually appear in print. Somehow that _irritates_ him, because all the effort for naught? He’s been playing with the idea of… well, if he’s doing _that_ , it’s probably only fair to ask Steve if it’s all right. No matter, they can talk about this over _wanton_ and rice.

 

And in between surviving more meetings and drafts after drafts of his next article, Saturday arrives. The address Steve has scribbled on the back of his name card leads Tony to an apartment painted brick red, tucked away in a friendly neighbourhood overseeing a children’s playground. Tony parks his car near the monsoon drain and walks the short distance to the door.

 

“Tony!”

 

Perfect timing. Steve is actually walking down the streets towards him, hugging a brown grocery bag and has on the brightest smile another human being has ever given him today. “How are you?” he greets, and dials his security PIN on the number pad.

 

“Pretty good. The column is doing better than expected.”

 

Steve lets them both into his unit and he says something about, “Make yourself at home.” There’s a waft of grainy wholesomeness hanging in the air – it’s probably the steamed fragrant rice – and homeliness to it. Unlike Tony’s own messy abode, Steve’s is well-organised and minimally decorated. The floor, wall and ceilings are painted in a few muted hues of beige and earthy brown, and there are not many personal paraphernalia around. The sitting room has only a couch and an armchair, and on the latter Tony finds a thick, red, lengthy nylon rope draping the armrest. Just before the TV set, a trolley bearing a punching bag is parked. Tony looks up instinctively and sees a pulley dangling from the ceiling.

 

Steve re-emerges from his kitchen. “Don’t mind the stuff. I meant to stash them somewhere before you come.”

 

“I can do that for you. Where d’you want them?”

 

“It’s fine, you’re my guest. Can’t have you put away stuff for me –”

 

“It’s no problem. You have a spare room, or a personal gym somewhere?”

 

“Uh, first door to the left, down the hallway, then. Appreciate it, Tony.”

 

First-door-to-the-left is Steve’s bedroom. Even here there’s nothing much going on; a queen-sized bed in the centre decked in plain white sheets and comforter, another armchair near the window and a modestly-sized wardrobe behind the door. Tony wheels the punching bag in and places it in an unoccupied corner. As he walks past the nightstand, he glimpses on a photograph framed by lacquered wood pieces. It has Steve on the left hand side – a much younger, potentially _happier_ Steve, or maybe this is just how he likes to smile for the camera – and he has an arm draped over another man with a red star tattoo on his left bicep.

 

A brother, perhaps? Or a cousin, or a Rhodey-equivalent, the kind of best bud you can bury bodies with –

 

“Is everything OK?”

 

Steve is standing right behind him. Tony nods, startled.

 

“Dinner is served. Come on out.”

 

And Tony closes the door behind them with a curt click.


	15. Chapter 15

“My goodness. Where did you learn how to cook?”

 

“I was alone a lot of time when I was younger. Got to figure out how to feed myself somehow.”

 

“This is _delicious_!”

 

Tony hasn’t had home cooked food since… ever. His mom couldn’t tell her proteins apart – if the can says “chicken”, then chicken it is – and that inherent incapability of manning the stove seems to run in the family.

 

When Steve reaches out for a piece of pork belly, his sleeve rides up to show a much paler, yellowish brown bruise that’s half the size of what Tony remember last seeing.

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

Steve nods and shove a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

 

“I’m thinking of writing a book about us.”

 

Steve chokes. His chest heaves with the coughs, and he clumsily puts his chopsticks down on the table.

 

“Uh, water, _water_ –”

 

“No need.” Tony is already halfway rising from his seat as Steve waves him down. His eyes are teary and he wipes his mouth with a napkin. “ _What_ did you say?”

 

“I’ve plenty of leftover material from writing the column, right?” Tony explains matter-of-factly, his meal lay forgotten before him. “I don’t want to just feed them to the paper shredder. And I can’t get them published in the dailies anyway, so here’s my genius proposal. I want to publish a book about us. Completely anonymous, of course,” he adds hurriedly as Steve’s brows begin raking his fringes.

 

“If that’s what you want, Tony.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Truthfully, he’s expecting a bit more fight.

 

“Is this what you want?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then go ahead. I’ve something for you, too.”

 

The chair scrapes on the floor as Steve ups and disappears into his bedroom. Left to his own device, Tony inevitably turns to the red ropes dangling from the armchair. It’s for the punching bag of course, he reasons, but there’s something about it that’s _too_ distractive, more so than he’ll willingly admit. It’s just plastic strings. Could be the colour. Red is so out of place, so strikingly different from the neutral tones colouring the rest of Steve’s home. Attention grabbing.

 

Tony thinks maybe he should kick the stupid ropes under the coffee table, out of sight.

 

“Here.”

 

Steve’s back, and he’s holding out a small box wrapped in plain sugar paper.

 

“Can I open it?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“What’s the occasion anyway – oh… uh…”

 

It’s a rather unassuming, harmless, _innocent_ black box that belies its content. The words “Cobra Libre” splashes across the lid in gold, in bold, and when Tony turns it upside down, a _something_ falls into his lap. Something that looks like it’s supposed to go right over his –

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

Tony looks up at Steve, who’s watching him rather amusedly as he gets acquainted with his gift. Tony casually brings the Cobra Libre to eye level, and pushes a button. To nobody’s surprise, it starts vibrating with enough vigour that his hand trembles along, but quiet enough that the hum is only discernible when it’s pin-drop silence.

 

Steve doesn’t look like he can hold in his laughter much longer.

 

“Right. Ha ha. What’s this, Steve?”

 

“It’s for you.”

 

“I get that. I’m asking, why are you giving me _this_?” Tony turns it off and places it standing next to his glass of Chinese tea. But of course, does he think he’s going to leave this house with just dinner in his stomach?

 

“Later. Eat first.”

 

In under ten minutes, they’ve polished their dishes clean – not a single grain of rice left anywhere – and Tony somehow finds himself pressed into the kitchen sink as he’s trying to wash them; Steve is right behind him, not quite touching, not quite _not_ touching either, and his arms are cordoning Tony’s personal space.

 

“Permission?”

 

 _Finally._ The shoe finally drops.  

 

“Yes.”

 

“Leave the dishes. Go to the sitting room, Tony.”

 

Tony leaves his sud-covered bowl in a basin and goes, and the red rope is now hanging in a stiff strand from the pulley under the ceiling. He doesn’t know when Steve got to fixing that – he was elbow deep in soap water, he’s a polite guest like that – and now he stands to the right of the armchair.

 

His Cobra Libre has also gone mysteriously missing from the dining table, where he last put it.

 

“I need you to calm yourself, Tony. This is nothing we’ve ever done before.”

 

Damn right this is nothing like they’ve ever done before. Before – and Tony only just realises it –there were _people_ in the immediate vicinity. At first he dismisses it a ridiculous kink of Steve’s, like Steve _enjoys_ the tease of voyeurism, but now, now Tony appreciates the fact that there were people coming to his rescue, if he needed some rescuing done – he only needed to shout. Now Steve removes all that by inviting him into this… den of iniquity, and he’s going to – if he reads the ropes right – even have his last means of self-defence taken from him.

 

Be that as it may, Tony _is_ calm. He isn’t bursting out in cold sweat. His heart isn’t in his throat.

 

“So… do you string your victims up from the ceiling often?”

 

“This isn’t an abattoir, Tony. I used to hang my punching bag here.”

 

“Of course you did.”

 

“Give me your hands.”

 

Tony extends both arms towards Steve with the palms facing upwards. Steve very deftly threads the ropes around Tony’s wrists, pulling the length of it into a tight knot just over his pulse. Tony tugs experimentally, somewhat miffed at how rigid the rope work seem to be.

 

“I’m going to pull you up, all right?”

 

Tony follows the continuity of the rope with his eyes, from his wrists all the way up to the ceiling. Steve begins to pull, and Tony lets his arms be raised above his head, higher and higher until he’s stretched vertical that the skin of his soles barely scratches the floor. He sways where he stands, and tries to locate his new centre of gravity.

 

“OK?” Steve asks from somewhere out of his line of sight.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Tony feels Steve’s hands snaking over his that are already fisted around the ropes. Steve wrings it, and relishes Tony’s expressed discomfort. A knuckle runs down the side of his face.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

Tony does a quick check on himself. His heart is picking up its pace, a healthy beat that is not morbidly frantic. He’s burning up, ready for the next touch. There’s a lazy shift somewhere deep in his core, and his clothes are heavy on his skin.

 

He’s finished. So finished.

 

_He wants this._


	16. Chapter 16

“Safeword?”

 

“Banana.”

 

“Come again?”

 

“Banana. My safeword. Can we start? I can’t feel my arms.”

 

“Stop complaining. Shall we impose a rule for complaining?”

 

“No. No, ignore me. If you don’t know me well enough, I talk when I’m under duress. It’s a coping mechanism.”

 

From the reflection off the black TV screen, Tony can see Steve a staunch shadow behind him, clear as day despite him stubbornly remaining outside of his sight. It also feels like a bizarre, out of body experience, to see himself presented like that and he feels a rush of heat coming over his cheeks.

 

And Steve starts the ball a-rolling. He runs his hands firmly along Tony’s flank, from the armpits down to his waist, and if these touches don’t linger in the dip of his ribs, or the jutting bone on his hip, for all he knows Steve could be just frisking him for kicks. The cotton material of his shirt catches wherever Steve affirms his grip, digging into Tony’s flesh, and he sees the reveal of his bare stomach on the TV screen. He sways some more, clinging onto the taut nylon rope for stability. Then Steve’s undressing him, making easy work of the buttons and leaving his open shirt to hang off his shoulders.

 

Hot breaths ghost along his nape. Stray, blonde hair tickles his jaws as Steve noses his neck. Chapped lips brush past his collar. Tony fidgets. He’s developed a nasty urge to scratch where Steve is touching him carelessly, and actually balks when Steve moves to caress the front of his torso. It goes over the valley of his breasts, over his heart, and the fact that he’s straining in his posture further defines his muscles. Steve’s callous palms are all over him, leaving violent goosebumps in their wake.

 

Restless fingers scuttle southward, past his navel, past his barely-there snail trail, past the waistband of his jeans, and Steve gropes at the half-hard mass. Tony sucks in a breath. He jerks again, and he eases his tiptoeing a bit, enduring the harsh pulling of the ropes on his wrists. In the next heartbeat, his belt, pants and briefs are but a pool of clothes around his feet.

 

“If you don’t mind,” Steve whispers by his ears, “can I borrow this?”

 

What “this” is Tony cannot see, but the stupid buzz is telling enough. Steve brings the Cobra Libre down in between his thighs and slips it over his cock, and Tony’s body just folds into itself. He slips off the floor for real, leaving his entire weight to be supported by that single piece of nylon rope, and it _hurts_. Yet his cock throbs, and it’s torture, trying to reconcile pleasure with pain. He’s panting, and he feels himself growing and filling up the gap within the Cobra Libre. Steve has the vibration set on low – it has to be – because this can’t be all there is to it!

 

There’s a shift behind him, a rustle in his shirt as Steve moves to finally stand right in front of him. Tony has his head bowed since it’s already taking too much effort trying to hold himself together, but Steve will have none of that. He pinches Tony by his chin and forces him up.

 

“This look suits you, Tony.”

 

Tony’s expression hardens. He wrestles away from Steve’s grip, and the retaliation earns him an burst of vibration in the Cobra Libre. He gasps and shies away from it – he doesn’t understand it either, but it’s foreign and it’s still much too slow for his liking – and the next thing he know, he’s half-swinging from the ceiling.

 

“Easy…”

 

“Steve…”

 

He needs it… so much. It being… it being the one thing that seems so unattainable right now. His body is making a speedy headway to its limit, his every muscle stiff and prickling, and he _can’t come_. Unknowingly he starts thrusting into the Cobra Libre – into Steve’s hand that’s holding it in place – and even that doesn’t help one bit. His burst of complaints die in his throat just as Steve leans in and starts littering open-mouthed kisses over his nipple. His free arm snakes around Tony’s back, holding him firmly in place. Steve’s crowding him, all over him, but he still _can’t_.

 

“Delectable.”

 

“Shut… _up_.”

 

 “Still so defiant.”

 

Steve drops to his knees. His kisses pave their way down Tony’s stiffening abdominal packs.

 

Tony’s eyes widen when he realises – through the thick fog of his mind – that Steve is looking direct at his crotch. He presses Tony’s raging erection into his pelvis, revealing the underside of it that has a thick vein running along it, and he goes for it. Tony swears he hears his back _snap_ as he arches violently into Steve’s mouth, the Cobra Libre a persistent massage over the tip of his cock. Steve’s tongue swirls around his balls, paying them attention he never knows exist.  

 

“Steve –”

 

He bucks his hip again.

 

“Stop, you got to… got to… st–”

 

He can’t concentrate enough, his words a garbled mess laced with shameless cries of needs and wants, and what the hell, Steve’s _not_ stopping, not in the slightest, and Tony knows he’s going to lose himself completely when it happens.

 

And it happens.

 

It tears through him, through the agony in his arms and the oversensitivity of the flesh within the Cobra Libre, through Steve’s ministrations and it just won’t stop. He’s pleasured raw, and the aftermath sets in as a whine in the back of his head.

 

“Tony? Look at me. Hey.”

 

Tony’s still trying to catch his breath. His face is flushed, his forehead beaded with sweat. There’s a pinch between his brows and a sluggishness to the way he struggles to lift his head.

 

“Tony?”

 

“I can’t feel… my arms.”

 

Steve lunges for the rope. The sudden gush of blood down the choked veins was enough to send Tony crashing to the floor. Steve pulls him into a loose embrace, and Tony curls into himself, hugging his arms close to his chest.

 

Now Tony’s afraid.

 

If satiation is this, as messed up and excruciating as it is, he thinks he can’t stop wanting more.    


	17. Chapter 17

Good morning, America!

 

Tony clocks in, makes coffee, gets new assignments, and gets yelled at by the boss. Somewhere in between all that, he gets some work done. Today’s Monday, so things are bound to get bluer.

 

Speaking of which, Monday is – and the accursed song by one Miss Black can’t resist looping in his head, _where’s his mental album of Lynyrd Skynyrd?_ – two days after Saturday. It’s been two days… _since._ He spent Sunday in the mall, believe it or not. Just random strolling down the walkway, doing loads of window shopping… wherever there was a crowd, there he was, too. He had a sandwich for lunch in front of a musical fountain where children basically hurl themselves into jets of water under the watchful eyes of their parents, and Tony felt safe. Reassured. That’s a huge favour they’ve done for him unknowingly. Has he mentioned that people – in general – are great? _He sucks_ , but people are great.

 

If he could spend the rest of the night under the stars, he would. But he couldn’t, so reluctantly he returned home sometime after nine, and as he stood there by the door of his bedroom, he realised he _still_ couldn’t endure a moment of solitude without checking over his shoulder every other time. He was tired. So tired of having his hair - and his prick - stand on end for no specific reasons like there was someone breathing down his neck.

 

He was being ridiculous, he knew that. So he brought a table lamp from the hall and plugged it near his bedroom door. He turned the radio on and shoved it under his bed. Then he went to sleep.

 

Monday is when he has to put a freaking full-stop to his wimpiness because he’s a grown up, damn it. And grown-ups don’t show up at work moping over issues they fail to resolve over the weekend. So Tony puts his game face on and bangs away on his keyboard whole morning, and to his surprise, he manages to churn up a completed draft. This being the third submission also means that he’s only needed to spend two more weeks with Steve, top.

 

And he doesn’t know how he feels about that.

 

The boss takes his draft as is this time. It’s weird, not to have spittle on his face for once. He shuffles out of the office wearing a mildly bemused expression, and he bumps into Rhodey at the water cooler.

 

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?” is the first thing that comes out of Rhodey’s sushi-hole.

 

Tony just raises a brow questioningly and reaches for a paper cup when Rhodey grabs him around the forearm and pushes the sleeve up to his elbow. And they’re displayed to all – angry welts crisscrossing about the wrist. He shrugs the sleeve over them.

 

“What happened to you, Tony?”

 

“I fell off the stairs?”

 

“Who did that?”

 

“Nobody did anything.” Tony picks his cup and leaves, and so does Rhodey, and there’s a lot of agitated movements as they exit the pantry. Rhodey looks like he wants to seize his friend and shake him back and forth until the truth spills out.

 

“I was moving a punching bag, and I looped the strings around my wrists, and I pulled. Not the smartest thing to do, I know. Should’ve invested in a trolley.”

 

“This the people you’re interviewing?”

 

“Rhodey, stop.” Water sloshes around the rim of his cup as he spins on his heel. He’s nose to nose with a man-sized worth of sympathy, and concern, and smouldering anger – none of which is particularly useful to him at the moment.

 

“It's fine. _I’m fine_. If this bothers you, then don’t look.”

 

Regret swiftly replaces his annoyance, and he wishes he could take it all back. His stomach sinks at the hurt that flashes across Rhodey’s face.

 

“Just want you to make sure you’re OK, man.”

 

That does it. For his next birthday he wants somebody to install a “Censor” button in his brain to keep himself in check, and wire it to a “Delete” button in parallel as a failsafe.

 

He annihilates his empty cup and chucks it into the bin.

 

After lunch, something else happens that takes him momentarily away from the general suckiness of postprandial somnolence; one Obadiah Stane is in his Inbox, a return e-mail for something Tony sent out yesterday midnight.

 

Which is fantastic.

 

Years of slogging around the world of journalism opens up some useful network. Book publishers happen to be one of those links and Tony sifts through the pile of name cards he’s collected over the years. Mr Stane is reputable for his willingness to collaborate with unpublished, aspiring authors, and Tony figures he might actually give his manuscript more than the cursory thumb-flipping. And when he says manuscript it's more like a rough draft of whatever he has so far that will probably fill up to, at most, Chapter Two. It’s a long shot, but don’t try don’t know, right?

 

_This looks promising, Mr Stark. Will you be available for dinner tomorrow at the Bastion? We can discuss how to take this work further. Obie._

Before he clocks out of work, he swings by Rhodey’s cubicle and tosses him a Toblerone.

 

And it suffices.

 

That night, as Tony turns on the radio and sweeps it under his bed – if he’s not careful he’s going to wind up with a new habit – his phone buzzes, once.

 

_Tony, my unit’s assigned a long shift this week. I’ll contact you again by the next? If you need me, my phone’s on 24/7. Take care. S._

Tony sends the phone to charge and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palm, and sighs. His fingers have gone cold again.


	18. Chapter 18

The Bastion is intimidating.

 

The angular architecture of the private coffee house with brick walls painted in solemn hues gives Tony the distinct notion that he’s both under-dressed and belongs to the wrong societal class. If the few pieces of greenbacks he packs in his wallet were alive, they’ll be twitching too. It’s fifteen minutes to seven, and Tony doesn’t want to be caught loitering in the compound. Manning up for the occasion, he collects his canvas bag from the ground and approaches the reception.

 

“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation with us?”

 

Tony whistles inwardly. This is the first time someone ever asks for his name in a coffee shop before they allow him in.

 

“No, but I’m meeting someone soon, perhaps there’s a table for us under his name? Uh, Mr Obadiah Stane.”

 

By the next minute, Tony finds himself ushered to a corner table and is presented a menu. Nothing on it has a price tag and half of the other items he isn’t sure of the pronunciation – _this is a coffee shop, isn’t it?_ He orders his coffee black and waits, his fingers drumming on the polished glass table. There aren’t many people around and the few that are sitting by the bar are sporting some really nice threads and leather. Tony shuffles abound his ankles and tries to hide his shoes from public sighting and continues to nurse his cup, all the while making conscious effort of not looking at anyone in the eye.

 

Well, the light bulb that’s hanging over his head is pretty.

 

“Mr Stark, sorry for being late. You can’t believe the traffic!”

 

Obadiah rushes towards him with a hand extended. He’s bald, but the tell-tale signs of graceful aging are apparent. His grey necktie is still perfectly positioned under his throat even though it’s already past normal work hours, and his jacket is not the least rumpled. Tony stands up and shakes the proffered hand, thanking the older gentleman for wanting to meet.

 

“Oh, it’s fine. Have you taken your dinner?”

 

He should have enough money for food.

 

“Not yet…”

 

“Excellent! _I’m famished._ Miss Wu,” Obadiah flashes a row of teeth at a young lady as she walks past. “May we place our orders?”

 

Perhaps it was simply too early, but slowly there’s more chatter going on and the temperature around them rises with the throng of people coming in. It’s only Tuesday night yet these people are dressed to impress, most of whom have enough product in their hair to make the spaghetti in Tony’s plate stiff again. Thank God for this dim, remote corner seat.

 

“You look like you come here often, Mr Stane.”

 

“Eh, just Obie, please. It’s a good place to talk business. As you can see, most people come here with similar intentions.”

 

“Mm hmm.”

 

“Concerning your manuscript,” Obadiah begins, and he wipes his mouth with a napkin. “There’s not much written, but I can tell that you have enough material for a book. So, how long have you been dabbling in the art of BDSM?”

 

Tony flinches openly.

 

“Uh, why do you say that?”

 

“No need to be shy now, Tony – can I call you Tony? Good, good. I’m old, as you can see. Been in this business before you were born. I can tell fiction from real, and your words tell me they are _real_. You’re part of the… community, as they call it. Or am I wrong?”

 

“Will it affect your decision on my manuscript?”

 

Obadiah licks his lower lip, deliberating. “No.”

 

“Then I’d rather not comment on it.”

 

“You’ve got spunk, Mr Stark,” Obadiah draws himself up and sits straighter in his chair. He interlaces his fingers on the table and surveys Tony with a newfound air of distance and professionalism. “All right. A decent portion of manuscripts in my inventory are erotica, so I can tell you first hand that if, going by what you’ve given me, there’s a good chance of it actually selling and earning. But we won’t know for sure until it’s out there, of course. I mean, market prediction can only tell us so much.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“But this is business after all. You’re an accomplished journalist, and that’s the main reason why we’re meeting tonight. I don’t normally accept unfinished manuscript for work of non-fiction – I know what it is, Mr Stark. I do.

 

I’ve also been following your column in the papers.”

 

Obadiah leans forward into the table again. He makes to pick up his fork and resume dinner, and his fingers brush lightly over Tony’s knuckles. A presumed innocent flick becomes a daring rub. The sheer deliberation of how Obadiah’s thumb starts to rare over the inside of his wrist, over the fading rope marks – it makes his throat constrict. With equal parts of not wanting to make a scene and not knowing what to do, he stills.

 

“I must say I quite enjoy reading it.”

 

The touch lingers.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Again, Obadiah withdraws and resumes his talking and eating without missing a beat while Tony has already lost his appetite for his spaghetti.

 

“Assuming this is the follow-up of your articles – it is, isn’t it? – then it’s _even better_. We know now that the premise works, so it’s going to be easier to convince the main publishing house to greenlight this.”

 

“That’s… good to know.”

 

“It is.”

 

Suddenly, the lights come on brighter and the chatter dies a little. Tony looks up from his dish, noticing for the first time that the walls around them are actually deep violet and not cocoa brown. There’s a small disturbance over at the reception counter where two large men whom Tony cannot yet see seem to be looming over the petite lady manning the registry.

 

“Don’t mind that,” Obadiah waves dismissively. “It happens a couple of times this week. Absolutely nothing to worry about.”

 

Tony stabs absent-mindedly at his soggy dinner, but before he can even bring it to his mouth, the newcomers step out of the silhouette of that hideous bamboo pot by the entrance, and Tony drops his cutlery. It clangs loudly, metal on porcelain. The pair has just stopped Miss Wu, mere strides away from his table, and both men hold their badges out for her to see.

 

“Lieutenant Steve Rogers,” Tony hears. “Don’t worry, this isn’t a raid. We just want to ask some questions.”

 

Well, shit.


	19. Chapter 19

Obadiah grazes on his Caesar salad. “Someone you know?” He’s watching Tony with interest, a dollop of mayonnaise dangling from his mustache.

 

Tony purposely looks down into his plate and starts wharfing the rest of his spaghetti. He’s not expecting…  he’s pretty much blanked out the rest of his week from anything and everything Steve. Worse, there’s not even much joy to talk about bumping into him like this – even if it were Justin Hammer, Tony would’ve at least waved before flipping him the bird. His eyes flicker to the receptionist – he can’t help it – and his heart thumped when Steve meets his gaze all the way from there. Then it shifts to Tony’s companion, and the furrow in his forehead deepens.

 

“Think I’ve seen them around last week.”

 

“Oh, really?” Tony feigns curiosity.

 

“Yes. Probably up to no good. They’re wearing flannel.”

 

Steve and his partner ambles over to the bar. They occupy the middle stools and accepts their glasses of water, and Miss Wu sidles into a vacant chair beside Steve with another young lady in tow. Some pleasantries are exchanged, mostly with Steve flashing his badge again and talking a lot.

 

Tony doesn’t know why it’s bothering him more than it should.

 

“And! You’re a man.”

 

Tony chokes, coffee sliding down the wrong tube and he splutters his expensive drink into his napkin. At least Obadiah has the decency to look apologetic, and Tony can’t shake off the uncanny suspicion of someone’s attention arrowing down the back of his head. He throws a millisecond worth of glance at the bar but only sees Steve’s back turned fully against him.

 

“What a surprise. It can’t be more obvious enough.”

 

“Oh no, you misunderstand me. What I mean to say is, the erotica market is _cornered_ by female writers, so you know how uh, surprised I am when I finally meet you. I’ll be honest, I was quite looking forward to having dinner with a lady tonight, with a manly pseudonym. Not that it matters, really. As long as you have good content and a style that captivates your target audience, you’ll be fine.

 

Then Tony jumps a good inch in his seat. Obadiah is playing fucking _footsie_ with him, the polished tip of his shoes caressing the side of Tony’s shin.

 

“Uh, Mr Stane –”

 

“Obie.”

 

“Obie. Do you mind –”

 

“By the way, there’s one thing I _can’t_ tell just by reading what you’ve sent me, though. Is it going to be kept clean, or are you venturing further into sex and more serious roleplaying?”

 

Tony is already standing before he knows it. His chair scrapes loudly on the wooden floor, and a couple of heads turn to his direction. It’s steaming under his collar.

 

“Excuse me. I need to use the washroom.”

 

Tony scurries away with his tail between his legs and somehow manages to locate the washroom without somehow blundering into furniture. He almost does trip over himself as he skids to a stop right as he pushes through the door – Steve is there, washing his hands. And because life hates him, Steve looks up from the sink and sees Tony in the mirror, flabbergasted and frozen with one hand on the knob.

 

“Hey,” Steve says, turning around to face him.

 

“Steve.”

 

“Meeting friends?”

 

“Uh… kind of. And you? Work?”

 

“Steve,” an unfamiliar voice speaks from behind Tony, and his heart does another somersault in his ribs. “They still have the CCTV records. We need a warrant for them, though.”

 

“Thanks, Sam. I’ll make a call.”

 

Sam – now there’s a name to put to the face – however, has inexplicably commandeered the door knob from Tony’s death grip. They’re done talking, aren’t they? Leave then. Shoo, scat! Cue an amazingly awkward game of trace-my-line-of-sight, and Tony realises belatedly that _he’s_ caught in the middle. Has he mentioned how uncomfortable he is with all the attention he’s receiving tonight? He inches to the door, and remembers there’s a hyena waiting for him at the table, and that makes him stop in his tracks again.

 

“Tony, are you OK?”

 

Tony slaps his palm over his face. _Idiot idiot idiot_.

 

“Yeah. I’m good. Don’t let me hold you up. Good night, Steve. Thanks,” he adds to Sam who’s still patiently holding the door open for him, and off he goes to the dining area. Before they’ve gone completely out of hearing distance, Tony thinks he hears Sam asking, “D’you know him?”

 

Obadiah gives him an unsettling grin as he takes his seat.

 

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us their famous java chip latte. Consider this an early toast to a publishing deal!”

 

Guess what, he’s not going to let Steve soil his night. This is _his_ cheer of jubilation. He drinks.

 

Obadiah thankfully steers their conversation away from business and seems content enough to talk about, of all things, his hometown. Normally, a curt OK-thanks-bye entails when conversations start heading for the valley-of-running-out-of-interesting-topics – having possessing humongous amount of assholery, Tony’s never had problem walking out on people – but, even he thinks this isn’t a so bad. In fact, things downright _improved._ Tony feels like a million dollars. When Obadiah is not all smarmed up trying to push for a deal, he can be quite a likable character. Tony has a good feeling that this newly brokered partnership may even be the turning point of his life. Then he can treat Rhodey all the red plates of sushi he wants.

 

But is it him, or is there more contact between them now? Obadiah’s knees keep banging into his, and neither makes any effort of moving out of the way. Granted, it’s a small table, there’s not much knee space to begin with, and why is the air-conditioning not on?

 

“It’s getting really late, Tony. Don’t you have murder cases to report or something?”

 

“We don’t know that, do we? The assignment comes, and off we go pronto.”

 

“Sounds tiring.”

 

“It’s how things work.”

 

Obadiah asks Miss Wu to, “Put it in my tab” and just like that, they’re on their merry way to the exit. Tony does not miss Obadiah’s hand resting on the small of his back, and he’s certain he’s not overthinking the fact that the hand is gradually inching lower to his buttocks. Be that as it may, there’s no real sense of urgency to do something - like beating the shit out of Obadiah. Complacency grips him like a vice, and Tony huffs a nervous laughter when Obadiah _does_ give his left cheek a testing squeeze.

 

The bamboo pot that he’s just walked past is _still_ hideous, though.

 

His shoe catches a crack on the unevenly paved sidewalk. It’s too late, he’s hurtling over. Blue flannel jacket flutters over his face. There are arms supporting him by the chest, and someone’s calling for him from what sounds like a distance.

 

Tony chuckles lightly. Why doesn’t he laugh more often? It’s so easy to.

 

“Oh… OK, lemme up. Thanks.”

 

“Tony, be still.”

 

Tony straightens his legs and pushes himself off from whoever’s holding him by the shoulders. He slips again, and the hands on him tightens.

 

“Steve, I’m bringing the car around, OK?”

 

“You’re a friend of Tony’s?”

 

Tony has no idea who’s talking and what’s going on. There’s heated exchange and a flurry of movements and hello… he’s _right here_ , why are people ignoring him?

 

“It’s fine, I can take him home. Sam! Can you –”

 

“Go. I’ll cover you tonight.”

 

“Mr Stane, is it? I’ll have Tony call you when he’s… more of himself.”

 

“Thank you. Do you need help with –”

 

“I can take it from here. Good night.”

 

Someone’s leaving. Tony hears crunching footsteps heading away from him.

 

“Stand _up_ – where’s your car key? Did you drive here – hey, focus, Tony.”

 

“Steve?”

 

“Hang on. I’m taking you home.”


	20. Chapter 20

Tony lets himself be shepherded into the passenger seat of his car. Don’t say he’s the kind that goes down easy – just a minute ago he managed to pull himself free and in the process was going to drag Steve down to the tarmac with him. And don’t say Steve’s not living up to his Lieutenant-ex-military title because when he gets serious, he’s strong enough to make sure he gets his damn way. Steve has frisked his pockets for the keys and strapped the safety belt over his chest without much ado, all the while batting flailing arms that are doing their darndest to sock Steve across the jaw. One actually managed to collide with Steve’s temple. Completely unintentional, Tony swears.

 

“Lean back, Tony. I can’t see the mirror.”

 

He’s leaning forward onto the dash because his stomach is churning and he’s about to throw up. He tries to explain, because goodness if he doesn’t, someone’s going to have to deal with it and it sure ain’t him, he’s too busy chasing the lights that are orbiting his head. Steve eventually throws an arm out to press Tony back into his seat. He protests. No matter if they weren’t masculine sounds he’s making because _no one_ manhandles a Stark.

 

“How much did you drink?”

 

His _father_ drank to a pathological level. But Tony isn’t his father.

 

“Two cups…”

 

“Cups? Two bottles, more like.”

 

“Black… bitter, and something else. Chocolatey.”

 

The car veers sharply to the right. So does his stomach content.

 

“Right. Whatever you had, they’re not worth the trouble.”

 

“… Just coffee.”

 

Then the handbrake creaks audibly as Steve raises it. A door opens, and cool air blows onto Tony’s clammy face. Steve coaxes him off his seat – right, _now_ he wants him out – and pulls him to his feet. He finds his car comfortable, and he wants to go back _in_ , and he would’ve if not for Steve – who is decidedly all over him, physically – forcefully steering him into a building.

 

It’s dark and it’s stifling and it’s _uncomfortable_. He’s stumbling all over the place as Steve leads them down a hallway and into _yet_ another dark place. A bedroom. He’s in a bed. He also needs water, everywhere. In his mouth, on his skin – can someone turn on the fan? He’s got a ceiling fan in his room, and he needs it _on_ , now. But the pillows don’t smell familiar. The sheets feel too clean, the mattress too firm, and Steve is removing his shoes for him.

 

“Steve,” Tony kicks petulantly when Steve reaches for his socks. “Where am I?”

 

“My place. Hold still.”

 

Tony flops over to his stomach and shoves both arms under one of the pillows. He stretches long and hard, a felinely display of his body, before – to Steve’s horror – he starts gyrating his hips, pressing the front of his pants deep into the mattress. There is _no_ response that’s civil enough to watching a man writhing in need like that. Steve can only gape.

 

“Not… _enough…_ not nearly…”

 

Tony props his shoulders up with his elbows. He looks over to Steve, still frozen by the door.

 

“Hey, wanna do something about it?”

 

“You’re not thinking straight, Tony,” and Steve swallows uncomfortably. “You should really try to sleep it off.”

 

“Sleep _this_ off?”

 

Inhibition be damned, Tony spreads his legs and Steve sees it, the massive erection bulging through the thick material of his pants. Tony himself is starting to breathe heavily as his head rolls back into the pillow. Shit is going too fast. It’s as if he’s never left his car, and he’s flooring it when there’s a cliff right ahead.

 

“Need to get this…” and he breaks off with a guttural groan that has Steve’s attention snap back to the bed, just in time to see Tony rubbing and pumping his rigid length from outside of the pants.

 

“Like what you’re seeing?”

 

Why is Steve still standing there? Isn’t this enough? His whole body is set on fire, flaming with a hunger so great – and Steve’s utter look of, what, _disgust?_ is getting a bit off-putting.

 

“You do whatever you need to do. I’ll be outside.”

 

“Don’t go.”

 

Tony also sees desires in those irises, desires that are kept tethered and in check by sheer willpower. He can’t understand where this amount of righteousness is coming from, or how it’s possible for someone to be _there_ and when there’s _this_ served on a silver platter. Take him, devour him, down to the last morsel of everything he’s offering.

 

“Don’t go,” Tony begs breathlessly. “Please.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“No, I’m not – not bullshitting here, I need you.”

 

“You’re drugged to the gills, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

 

“I do,” he growls. He closes his thighs, relishing what little pressure he manages to put on his balls. “I’m _coherent_ , all here, all right – Steve, I know you want this –”

 

“No, don’t put words in my mouth.”

 

Tony squeezes his eyes tight, and he sinks deeper into the bed. A hand reaches up to cup the crown of his forehead. He doesn’t speak anymore, doesn’t even move though every line of his body is still painfully tense. For a split second Steve considers prodding him, when Tony exhales, his chest flattening with the loss of air.

 

“Do me another favour, then,” Tony mutters, his hand still covering his eyes. “Knock me out, or something. I can’t take this anymore.”

 

“I _can’t_. You’re making this difficult for _both_ of us.”

 

“ _I’m_ making this – why did you bring me here if you’re not gonna do anything, huh?” He’s empty on the inside, save for the sudden urge to just _lay it_ into Steve. His clothes are damp and constricting over his skin, his cock is filled up to bursting capacity, and _Steve_ is upset about this.

 

“I’m going home.”

 

“You’re not going anywhere. I can’t leave you alone – Tony!”

 

Tony has stubbornly – and foolishly – climbed out of the bed. His knees are still jelly, and before he can take another step forward, he’s both on the floor and half-draping over Steve.

 

He’s useless like this.

 

“Stand up.”

 

“… I can’t.”

 

“You’re burning up.”

 

Tony shudders when Steve brushes his damp fringes away from his brows. He leans into the touch, oblivious to the twitch in Steve’s jaws as he does. This is his remedy, his answer to everything in his universe. And Steve won’t give _it_ , won’t give in.

 

Tony lifts his chin a fraction. Steve’s lips are so within striking reach. He reaches for them, and Steve jerks away. He’s angry, Tony realises. Steve’s angry.

 

But Tony’s not sorry.

 

Steve hooks his arms under Tony’s armpits and bodily hauls him back to the bed. Tony seizes the opening; he loops his dangling arm over Steve’s neck and pulls him into the sheets, and it works – Steve falls heavily atop of him, knocking all air out of his lungs. It’s worth it. Not letting up, Tony bucks his hips, his cock grinding into Steve’s head on.

 

Oh. _Yes._


	21. Chapter 21

Steve wrenches away and shoves Tony back. The space stretches between them like a yawning maw, deeply disconcerting and empty and Tony laughs again, a sound that is too harsh to the ears. So what of the disappointment and shock gracing Steve’s stern features? Serves him right.

 

“Touch me.”

 

“No.”

 

“You want this. You’re rock hard down there.”

 

“Go to sleep, Tony.”

 

“I’m so close, Steve...”

 

Maybe it’s how Tony’s hand is creeping closer to his crotch again. Maybe it’s the half-lidded gazes he fixes on Steve. Maybe it’s the way his breath hitches in his throat, or the way his limbs twitch with every pulse discharging direct from his cock that Steve just crumbles. All of him. He flips Tony over that he lies on his side, pinned between the firm mattress and Steve.

 

“What do you want from me? This?”

   

Steve doesn’t care for preambles. He slips his hand into Tony’s pants, into the briefs and closes a fist over the cock. He pumps once, twice, and Tony folds into himself as he rides on the waves of his orgasm. It’s too fast, too _little_  – it still isn’t enough.

 

“Steve,” he bites out, breathless. “More…”

 

Steve’s aware of how undone Tony still is despite evidence of ejaculation all over his hand. He adjusts his grip and tugs, and Tony hisses. Oversensitivity rips between his thighs and he jerks away. Still, he wishes.

 

“More.”

 

More is where Steve has drawn a line behind, a line that neither should dream of crossing. Isn’t there something he makes Steve promise – a very long time ago, like a lifetime away – why oh why did he ever make Steve promise him that? That does it, he’s burning it out of existence.

 

“It’s fine. Do it.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Fuck me.”

 

Steve reels Tony into his laps by the legs, and throws them over his broad shoulders so that Tony ends up straddling Steve’s head. Tony’s hip is lifted clean from the mattress, and his _everything_ is displayed to Steve in their full glory. Sometime between the bliss and the pain, he’s stripped naked from the waist down. He flails a bit for balance when he accidentally slaps at something – a tube of some sort – that’s been lain haphazardly and uncapped on the blanket.

 

“Come _on_ , Steve!”

 

Steve is still fully clothed.

 

“In me. Before I wake up.”

 

“This isn’t a _dream_ –”

 

“– just let me be honest with myself for once!”

 

The reverberation of their last few words trickles into the silence of the darkened bedroom. Tension as thick as blood, thick enough to weigh down on Tony and he sags like a ragdoll.

 

“Oh God…”

 

He’s a square peg, remember.

 

“Still can’t do this…”

 

He’s tried so hard, so God damn hard to fit in.

 

“ _Coward…_ ”

 

His body isn’t his own. It’s hollow in places, and he’s nothing to give, to offer that will stay Steve by his side. In fact, it’s also not about Steve – and it feels like someone’s gutted him with a blunt blade at this admission. What he hears in his head over and over again is the one definitive thing of his messed up person. _Coward coward coward_ – he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and digs until the image of Steve gets whited out by the sparks.

 

“Breathe, Tony.”

 

A gooey chill sails over his frenulum. Tony tenses as a well-slicked digit slides over his entrance, and winces as fingernails scrape past the resistance. His cock is weeping over his abdomen, and Steve heaves his legs more securely over his shoulders. He’s plugged, and he takes Steve’s fingers in like a champ.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

Now is the moment – not as right as any for sure – but he can go back to pretending after.

 

“When I told them I like men…”

 

The finger in his ass jolts to a stop. Tony arches his back, urging for its return.

 

“… they –” an electric-sharp burst of pleasure shot up his back, Steve is knuckle-deep in him, “– they threw me out of the house. Said…” Steve’s scissoring him with fervour, sweat beading with concentration, “… said they didn’t need another reason for me…” Steve forages for his most intimate, prodding at corners he doesn’t know exist, “me, to be a fucking disappointment.”

 

And Tony is like smouldering embers on Steve. He’s burning hotter than before, his skin absolutely flushed, and he’s taking in air like a man drowning. His every writhe is met with more pressure, invasive in all ways imaginable. He's desperate, so he pleads. He fists around the bed for a stray corner of Steve’s blanket, and Steve brings him to the edge.

 

“Steve –”

 

Steve’s long fingers find their mark. He rubs incessantly against the bump, never relenting even as Tony is spilling clear fluid from the tip.

 

“Am I – am I?”

 

It blazes in all direction. Tony’s screaming as he shoots semen onto his chest, and Steve’s not stopping. There is no respite. The next hits him harder, and he shakes where he’s emptied so completely. He’s also fading. The sensation of being lifted and rearranged into a position of comfort is but a distant memory, and Steve, still here, coaxes him to go to sleep. He does so gratefully this time, and hazily wonders why even this doesn't feel right anymore.


	22. Chapter 22

When Tony rouses from his dreamless sleep, he allows himself two seconds of bleariness before going into a full-blown holy-hell-what-have-I-done- _whom_ -have-I-done state of mental anxiety. He sits up and pulls the blanket away. The shirt he has on isn’t his. The _pants_ he has on isn’t his, either. Swallowing thickly he pulls at the waistband and OK, he’s inexplicably and officially gone commando. Strangely enough he doesn’t remember showering, yet his person isn’t all too filthy. Is there time for him to freak out a little?

 

He looks around the room that feels vaguely familiar. He recognises that closet, the armchair and that barren desk, and the nightstand with the photo of Steve and the man with the red star tattoo.

 

The bedroom door is ajar. Muffled voices, like they were kept low on purpose flit through the gap and Tony shuffles over, barefooted and somewhat unsteady.

 

“You don’t know if he _wants_ to report it.”

 

“I’m not forcing him to. His choice. But at least we’re ready.”

 

“You going to stand witness if he does?”

 

“If I have to.”

 

“Conflict of interest aside, all of you were caught on tape anyway.”

 

There are people standing around the hall. Steve has his back against him, and Sam – he remembers, he’s Steve’s partner from yesterday – is looking straight at the bedroom, at Tony, and he nods.

 

“Good morning?” Tony tries. His half-smile dies when Steve only spares him a passing glance. “I’ll get you some water,” he says to no one in particular, and leaves. He doesn’t know Sam beyond his name but already he feels some sense of mild consolation by just sharing the same standing space. Forgive his diction – it’s still too early for reading-Steve-between-the-lines – but where Steve is sour, Sam is sweet. He’s positively beaming at Tony even when there’s no reason for rejoice – and given current circumstances… - but it’s what Tony needs. Hell it’s what everybody needs. Has anyone seen that look on Steve when he sees Tony crawl out of the bedroom?

 

Sam beckons for Tony to join him in the sitting room.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“All things considered,” everywhere and everything is as numb as it can be, “not bad.”

 

“It’s always a bit disorienting the morning after.”

 

Steve hands him his glass of water wordlessly, and moves to sit beside Sam.

 

“Mr Stark, do you wish to report this incidence to the authorities?”

 

“I… I’m not sure.” Tony searches Steve for some indications, some clues as to what he thinks Tony should do next, but Steve is stubbornly staring at a point an inch over his shoulder. “I mean, I don’t know what good it’ll do. I don’t remember anything.”

 

“You don’t remember a thing?”

 

“No.” He knows it’s useless, but he racks his brain again. “No. I mean, the fact that I just lost a few hours’ worth of memory can’t be good. So whatever it is, thanks for saying my ass.”

 

Steve is looking at him now, but it’s hard and stern, and frankly Tony isn’t sure what he’s expecting.

 

“We can help, if you want to make a report,” Steve says after a while. He scoots closer to the coffee table and opens a transparent plastic box that Tony just realises is there. And to his dismay, Steve pulls out a syringe, an orange belt, a fucking needle –

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Mr Stark –”

 

“Tony.”

 

“Tony. The quicker we collect the samples, the higher the chances of detecting… compounds of interest. Of course, the detection window depends on what you’ve ingested but typically, anything above 14 hours will likely be a negative. So –”

 

“So, we need your blood and urine now.”

 

Tony doesn’t miss the way Sam shoots a questioning look at Steve, before adding himself, “Just to be clear, we’re not forcing you to. Standard protocol requires you to go to a registered physician, but a lot of time has lapsed between the incidence and now. Treat it like a shortcut. Steve will handle the paperwork,” the side of his lips quirks a little.

 

Tony nods, and starts rolling his sleeves.

 

“All right. You guys have fun. I need to borrow your bathroom, Steve.”

 

Steve motions for the arm, and Tony complies. There’s stiffness, even agitation in the way Steve is using his hands, and Tony thinks darkly that this is probably going to hurt more than necessary.

 

“I sincerely hope you didn’t just learn venepuncture off YouTube.”

 

The orange tourniquet is bolted firmly in place around his biceps, and Steve prods his flesh, looking for an easy vein. It’s clinical with pinpoint precision, and weirdly enough, Tony finds the efficiency irritating.

 

“Out with it, then.”

 

Steve ignores him, choosing to arm his syringe with a bevelled needle. Yep, definitely irritating.

 

“Deep breath.”

 

“Whoa, wait until the freakin’ alcohol dries – ow!”

 

Ten millilitre of blood emptied into a purple-capped vacutainer later, Steve hands him a yellow-capped plastic container.

 

“Uh…”

 

“Wash yourself up first. Collect after you’ve –”

 

“I know how to collect piss,” Tony cuts in testily. “Are you all right? ‘Cause it seems to me that –”

 

“I’m done,” Sam declares. There's the sound of his flushing as he slides the bathroom door wider. Tony leaves without finishing his sentence, leaving Steve to slink into the sofa.

 

“I know how to collect piss,” Tony mutters as he almost slams the door shut behind him. And good gracious, he looks like hell warmed over. He stands closer to the mirror and turns his face side to side, and cringes at the pallor of his reflection. Well damn, and he drops his pants and turns on the shower. The morning urine, or the first urine as they call it, is the most… useful. It’s got all the good stuff from the night before. As Tony hoses down his cock with lukewarm water, he blinks, and he frowns, and he stops. Déjà vu. He grips his cock again, and tugs at it once. It’s _familiar_. It’s fucking familiar. Why is it familiar?

 

He urinates into the toilet bowl for a bit as his thoughts race in a blur. He remembers this bullcrap Rhodey told him when _he_ had to do the same thing for a routine check-up. _“They should really put a mark on this cup, man. Tell us how much to give.”_ Tony smiles and finds comfort that out there, there’s Rhodey he can go home to.  _“Damn, this looks too much. Gonna pour a quarter of it away…”_ They want to trace something in him.  _“Uh-oh_. _”_ They don’t say it, and he doesn’t remember it, but he knows the tell-tale aftermath.  _“Should I top up with tap water?”_

 

Tony’s hold on the half-filled container almost slips at the next realisation – it’s Wednesday. It’s too late into the morning and he’s _here_ instead of work.

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

“Tony?”

 

He’s taking too long. He looks into the mirror again as he finishes up.

 

He shouldn’t be here.


	23. Chapter 23

“Tony, come out!”

 

The door slides open between them, and Tony finds himself eyeball to eyeball with a rather flustered Steve - whose shoulders are angled to him - making it look as if he’s ready to break the barrier down if Tony doesn’t answer him soon.

 

“What?”

 

“I thought…” Every time he gets an eyeful, even if it’s on a good hair day, Tony gets a little bit self-conscious. And here Steve is, giving him a once over when he hasn’t even brushed his teeth.  “Never mind.” Steve jerkily holds out a paper bag, and very, _very_ hesitantly Tony lowers his container into it. That better be enough. He was pissing like a horse but didn’t want to provide _everything_ – that never feels morally right… but Steve just bags it and places it carefully in the plastic box.

 

“Sam, I’ve labelled the stickers with his details –”

 

 “Where did you get my details?”

 

“Your driving license. Stick them onto the samples before submission.”

 

“You raided my _wallet_?”

 

“I’m taking this to the lab direct. Later.” Sam presses a longer, meaningful stare at Steve, something that looks like _“Call me if anything happens_ ” and is gone in the next heartbeat.

 

The last of Sam’s presence is the final few footsteps and the click on the door, and the fissure of vacancy he leaves behind. There’s just Tony and Steve in the sitting room, neither daring to make the first eye contact, or say the first word, or even move for the matter. Things are bound to be awkward, but no amount of mental preparation can ready Tony for this.

 

So Steve want to give him a hard time for shit he didn’t expect to happen?

 

“You know,” Tony finds himself yapping. “If this is all too troublesome, we can just forget about it. Recall the samples and let bygone be bygone.”

 

“It’s not that straightforward,” Steve sighs heavily. He’s rubbing at his temple, his eyes pinched close over a shadow of fatigue on his countenance.

 

“Damn right it isn’t. You’re working against the SOP, Steve. I’m supposed to be examined – physically, maybe even mentally, not looking forward to any, FYI – and giving my account at the station. What am I even doing here?”

 

“There are ways. Don’t worry about that.”

 

Steve finally heaps his utmost attention on Tony. No more Sam to share it with, no more reasons to feign civility for. Even as he lowers himself onto the armrest, his eyes never wander, a steady weight on Tony.

 

He wanted this not two seconds ago, didn’t he? He wanted Steve to see him, really notices that he’s _here_ , and now that he does, he wishes nothing more than for Steve to chuck him out right onto the streets. To anybody who’s concerned about him, he’s peachy fine. He's overstaying his welcome, but why does he have the feeling that if he even tries to walk out that door, Steve is likely to haul him back by the collar?

 

“I need to call the office,” he says instead. A divergence. Something, to throw Steve off whatever that’s going choo-choo in his noggin.

 

“Your phone died.”

 

He reaches under the coffee table, past a pile of books and fishes out two sets of cell phones. One of them is his. The other though…

 

“Use one of my spares.”

 

“This…” Tony flips it front to back in his palms, “Nokia 3310, Steve. _Nokia 3310._ You still keeping this?”

 

“It should still work. I switched out the old battery for a new one.”

 

“Bet it would,” Tony mutters under his breath as he swaps the SIM cards. “Nokia 3310, honestly…”

 

Tony paces the sitting room as he talks-explains-defends-deflects on the phone. Having a dignified conversation with the boss gets a little bit testing, so he walks and walks until he runs out of floor space. He heads into the kitchen instead, and unscrews his neck a little so it helps with all the nodding and “Yes, sir, it won’t happen again.” By the time he’s done, he imagines one side of his face to be caked in virtual spittle.

 

There’s also a message from Rhodey when he’s about to call the devil: _Heard boss-man on the phone with you. Must be one hell of a night you had._

 

“You should stop meeting Obadiah Stane.”

 

Tony glances up from his phone. “Definitely not eager to, buddy. But we don’t know if it’s him, and he’s got a decent publishing record –”

 

“No. Just don’t.”

 

“No, _you_ don’t get to have a say in this, all right?” Tony slams the phone down on the dining table and turns to face Steve fully. Rhodey’s return message is only half-finished, but _this?_ He’s had it with these mind games _up to here._ “What we,” he points sharply at Steve, “have here, is not _spilling_ over to ‘out there’. This is my life, my work. You can have me on a leash behind closed doors and _that’s it._ Well? Cat got your tongue? You look like you wanna say something.” He spreads his arms in open invitation. “All ears, Steve.”

 

Don’t Steve see it? There’s a _trench_ separating work from their co-curricular activities.

 

“Nothing to say?” Tony comments scathingly. “I can’t read minds, if you don’t know that already. Keep looking at me like that and I might think you’re actually worried over my case.”

 

Steve averts his eyes to the floor.

 

“I do worry,” he replies, a soft huff of air and just like that, just three words, nothing more, and Tony feels like he’s just been doused with ice water. “I can’t say much, but that man is bad news. Really bad news.”


	24. Chapter 24

It’s nobody’s fault, but Tony’s been really slow on the uptake. It’s like the very air he breathes is viscous, that every thought has to be channelled through a tube of glycerine before it computes. He just notices the adjacent mountain of DVDs and files occupying half of the coffee table when Steve glances surreptitiously at them. The apparent remnant of work pulled over an all-nighter was gathered around a coffee mug with dried coffee dregs at the bottom. Has Steve been working on them while Tony sleeps?

 

“The Feds have just re-opened a cold case,” Steve starts, his words uttered heavily like they’ve been dragged through the muck. “We’ve been tasked to assist their local operations. Stane is on their watchlist. He’s not the only one, but still. Just,” a deep exhale later, “take it like you’re doing me a favour. Stay away from him and let us do our job.”

 

“OK.”

 

Tension returns to Steve’s shoulders, like he isn’t sure if Tony is in fact capable of taking advices. “OK?”

 

“I hear you. No more meetings with Stane. So, you pulling out an SAE kit from somewhere –”

 

The sudden change from sitting to half-standing obviously hurt Steve. He winces sharply and grapples the side of his head. Tony is beside him in an instant, but Steve is pushing through, trying so hard to twist around to grab Tony, anywhere, and only manages to double over.

 

“Oh no,” he grits out, his face crumpling as he searches Tony’s, “No. Did he – were you?”

 

“No. No, no, no. I was just asking! You look like you got hit by a bus – sit down, here.”

 

“Not _funny_ , Tony…”

 

“Have you been sleeping?”

 

This imagery sucks. A burly man like Steve has no business cosying up to the couch clinging to a throw pillow like a drowning man would do to a buoy. Tony’s beginning to pluck stray IQ points from thin air. He thinks of paracetamol, a glass of warm water, some breadsticks maybe?

 

“… No.”

 

“How long have you been awake?”

 

“A while. Thirty six hours?”

 

“Come on, you’re going to bed.”

 

Steve slides sideways instead, almost kneeing Tony in the balls as he props his legs on an arm rest, his head on the other.

 

“Here’s fine.” He presses his forearm over his eyes, blocking the intrusive morning sunlight. “You can leave if you want. Car’s outside. Your stuff’s on the table by the fruit bowl.”

 

He can leave? It does feel a tad anticlimactic, doesn’t it? He has a multitude of scenarios playing in his brain – like those RPG games with multiple dialogue options? He’s anticipating Steve’s, and has even racked up some choice wisecracks to defend himself with, and Steve’s decided that that’s all, folks.

 

“I am so leaving your ass here as you bask under the spotlight of solitude.”

 

Even jokes can only hide so much.

 

Steve’s breathing slows, the hard lines in his forehead smoothening out by the second. He’s out like a light – or so Tony thinks – that just as he’s about to initiate his hunt for his personal belongings by the fruit bowl, Steve grabs him, his cold fingers closing over Tony’s.

 

“Be safe, Tony.”

 

When he’s mustered enough sense to regard Steve in the couch, all he sees and hears are Steve’s snoring.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, that was rad. Were you trying to get your ass fired?”

 

True to his words, the next day Tony reports to work early by one entire hour. He slaves on the pile of paperwork that’s been magically conjured and sadistically left on his table by the boss, and his brain fizzles out as he finally closes his last folder. A job well done, if he can say so himself. Naturally he’s got to reward himself, so he idles by the water cooler, and Rhodey comes by to hang out.

 

“You want to tell me what happened?”

 

Rhodey has dropped the friendly charade. His voice pitches lower as he surveys Tony keenly from above the rim of his paper cup.

 

“I… uh, someone slipped me the mickey two nights ago, so.”

 

They say honesty is the best policy.

 

“You got drugged.” Rhodey lowers his cup before he gets in a good draught. “Maybe I heard you wrong. Did you say _you got drugged?_ ”

 

When Tony doesn’t answer, he sighs – unnecessary dramatics, really. He opens his mouth, pauses to reconsider his words, and is about to spew what Tony believes to be a litany of what-were-you-even- _thinking!_ that he cuts in quickly, “I’m very fine, thank you for asking. We’re sorting this out. Gave ‘em blood and piss, made a police report and all.”

 

“We? Who’s _we_?”

 

To what distance does he want _Rhodey_ over the trench between “out here” and “in Steve’s sex dungeon”?

 

“A friend.”

 

“A friend?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I don’t mean this in a creepy way, but I never pin you as having friends outside of this job.”

 

Now that’s just low. Tony purses his lips and drinks from his cup. “Must be my charming persona.”

 

“Do I know this guy?”

 

“No. Sorry,” and Tony digs into his pocket. That's the alert for an incoming text message.

 

_Lab results just came out. Come down to the station as soon as you can. Call me when you’re near. S._


	25. Chapter 25

Tony chews on his gum and imagines it’s his heart he’s grinding with his molars. As anxious he is to find out, he doesn’t want to skim off more working hours unnecessarily – he’s just secured next month’s paycheck thanks to his column, his lucky break. It’s kind of like an emergency, but try using said word with the boss again. He leaves at seven in the evening and crams dried bread down his throat as he Schumacher his way to the police station. Steve’s name card that bears the station address is on his dash, his GPS so to speak, and he parks his car diagonally by the entrance like an asshole.

 

“I’m here, Steve,” he splutters into the phone. To his indignation, Steve _hangs up._ “Son of a bitch…”

 

“Tony!”

 

Because Steve is marching towards him from the elevator. He stops in his track well outside of Tony’s circle of personal space, leaving enough distance in between them to play London Bridge if they’d just hold hands.

 

“Follow me,” Steve beckons him into the elevator.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“The crime lab. I’ve got a friend going through your report before we log it in the database.”

 

“I’m going to be on a database?”

 

“Standard protocol.”

 

And Tony manages to stop himself from pointing out the irony of the entire event.

 

The elevator whisks them off to Level 6 with very few intermittent stops – understandably, it’s dinner time, even the police have to eat. The air-conditioning has been dialled down enough for Tony to start shivering, and he pulls his jacket closer around his shoulders. There’s a slight whiff of chemicals as they approach a counter, which is really more like a hole-in-the-wall with a guy manning it on the other side, a glass shield and iron crossbars being the only things standing between them.

 

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” greets the officer working the shift.

 

“Evening. We’re here for case 7300.”

 

The man rakes Tony’s not-police appearance – from the tip of his oily hair to the missing button in his jacket. He makes for the file cabinet behind him, but not before quipping, “You sure having someone else along is fine, Rogers?”

 

“The case, Officer.”

 

It’s only a few pieces of paper that got passed through the gap. It has Tony’s name on the header but before he manage to read the rest, Steve has already palmed it.

 

“Is Nat around? Has she gone through this?”

 

“A crate just arrived from Narcotics, she’s on to it. I understand she clips a personal note with the report, though. And she says this Quest order is for you, too,” the officer passes a second piece of paper to Steve.

 

Tony moves faster this time. It’s probably none of his business – but once a journalist, always a journalist – and since the paper is held out conveniently under his nose, naked without an envelope…

 

“Thanks.”

 

Steve quickly folds in half and stows in his back pocket. Both Tony and the officer raise their respective eyebrows.

 

“It’s private.”

 

“Looks to me like a misuse of state funding, Rogers. If this gets out –”

 

“No, it’s paid for from my own pocket, all right? Nat takes the blood from me and ships them off on my behalf because I can’t always drive all the way down to the lab myself. Give it a rest, Officer. If this gets out, I’ll take full responsibility.”

 

Tony’s mind is still buffering with the newfound information. He saw “DNA/RNA”. That means only one thing to him. Does Steve really?

 

“Urine is positive for trace amount of flunitrazepam and midazolam.”

 

“Yeah. Acute amnesia, muscle weakness, generation of fantasies of a sexual nature, the whole nine. Actually, Wilson just brought a guy in for the case.”

 

“He did _what_?”

 

“I can walk myself out, thanks!”

 

The door beside them swings open and three figures pour out of it. Tony finds himself slinking into the walls when _Obadiah Stane_ himself emerges from the silhouette of his very bulky chaperones. One of them is trying to wrestle Obadiah into compliance by his shoulders – an unwelcomed gesture that the older man successfully shrugs away. In his annoyance, his eyes travel the corridor before they inevitably settle on Tony. Recognition dawns.

 

“You!”

 

Obadiah hustles over. The officers manage to restrain him, this time more forcefully and Tony just watches the scene, white-faced and motionless. Steve has somehow managed to insert himself in front of Tony.

 

“It wasn’t me!” Obadiah spits out frantically. “I don’t know what he said, but it wasn’t me! You got the wrong guy!”

 

They poked Obadiah placidly in the back, urging him to move along – which he complies – and as he lumbers past Tony, Steve stands his ground. In that split second, they trade death glares – maybe, Tony isn’t sure, he’s busy studying his shoes as blood pounds in his ears.

 

“Sorry about that. We brought him in earlier for a buccal swap and a quick sweep. Didn’t know it’ll take this long.”

 

Tony straightens up as Sam, all of a sudden, approaches the gang. He believes Sam comes from the same direction Obadiah did.

 

“This isn’t enough to bring a man in, Sam,” Steve waves the lab report between them.

 

“No, it isn’t. But we cross-checked previous vic reports with the CCTV records and lab results. They don’t match perfectly, but the overlap is enough to invite Stane over for coffee. And you,” Sam turns to Tony, “it’s long overdue. We need to chat, too.”


	26. Chapter 26

“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet, Tony.”

 

It’s eight. It’s dark and chilly and kind of wet. At least the questioning went swell. Sam was courteous and on-the-point, and he paid Tony enough respect that the third degree went over more like a casual chat over coffee – they’re pretty sure it’s just beans and hot water this time. Tony was ready to say goodbye when Steve turned to Sam and mentioned “carpooled” and “give me a lift?”, which – naturally – is a cue for Tony to interject with “Sure.”

 

He sort of regretted offering, in a way. Here Steve is riding shotgun, while the damning words of “DNA/RNA” on Steve’s lab report a constant rumble in his mind. He knows what he saw. It’s Steve’s name on the header. Steve’s results. Steve’s blood. His heart thumped as his subconscious digests the implication of it, and it inexplicably boils over to tranquil fury.

  

“I didn’t know they had Stane over for questioning. I wouldn’t put you in that situation.”

 

Tony squints as the headlights from oncoming traffic fill his retina with snowflake designs. Stane isn't... he's not saying Stane isn't an issue but – _DNA/RNA, DNA/RNA, DNA/RNA…_ Tony steps harder on the accelerator. Steve shifts uncomfortably beside him, but doesn't say anything.

 

If what Tony suspects is true, then they officially have a glitter-covered, quadruple-tusked elephant in the room. Is anybody ever going to talk about it? Tony knows a little something about nucleic acid testing. He knows what they're for, what Steve's looking for.

 

Damn it all to oblivion.

 

“Are you HIV positive?”

 

Because why not now? Why not drop the fucking bomb right now? There’s never going to be a good time for it anyway, so why bother with the red carpets at all? It’s a  _felony_  to knowingly have sex with another after tested positive – not that they had, and not that Steve is - but let’s get real. God help him that he’s not - that it isn’t yet too late.

 

“Did something happen –”

 

“Don’t play me for a fool. I saw it.” _DNA/RNA._ “Well?”

 

Tony clenches his steering wheel tighter. He’s tailgating the front car. He doesn’t care. “I’m negative. I – Jesus Christ!”

 

Tony swerves the car violently to the left, sending all of Steve slamming into the door with the momentum. They jolt to a complete stop and Tony lifts his handbrake with almost enough force to break it cleanly off the box. At least five other cars drive past them – now parked haphazardly on the curb, plus Tony didn’t even bother with the signals – and four of them flip them the bird, their faces a portrait of  _motherfucker-where-did-you-learn-how-to-drive!_

 

“Give me  _one_  reason not to throw you out my car.”

 

“I test myself every year for –”

 

“Are you seeing someone?”

 

Steve has a hand on the door handle, though the lock is still in effect.

 

“No. It’s just you –”

 

“No. Don't. We’re not –  _not that_ – not in the remotest sense –”

 

“I haven’t been involved with anyone else – sexually – for the past year. I’ve been negative all the while. This one,” he gestures to his pocket where the lab report is still stowed in, “comes back negative, too.”

 

Tony’s face is still heating up, but there's also something else. This sort of thing usually goes both ways, doesn’t it? Tony falters as the minutest amount of guilt sinks in his guts. “You never asked  _me_  if I were negative. I could be your death sentence.” 

 

There’s another honk and a rude gesture comes their way on Steve’s side of the window.

 

“Remember our first meeting?”

 

“In the skivvy motel? Sure don’t.”

 

“I watched you shower.”

 

“God, are you –”

 

“I wasn’t doing it for pleasure.”

 

Boom.

 

“I was… inspecting you. For lesions. Unaccounted for blemishes, any overt signs of STDs.” Wow, when it rains, it really pours. Tony grits his teeth as he absorbs them all. “I can never be a hundred percent sure, but it was the best I could do.”

 

“You could’ve just asked.”

 

Steve only huffs miserably. “Not all answers are truthful.”  

 

Right. Because, newsflash: people lie.

 

“I tried to be in touch with you as often as I could the following week. I was learning your routine. See if there’s a trip to the clinic that cannot be rescheduled.”

 

“I don’t know if I should be affronted by this.”

 

“Tony, I –”

 

“Right. I’ve just decided. Get out of my car.”

 

“Let me –”

 

“- explain yourself? You just admitted to  _stalking_  me. Stalking. No – don’t say I’m exaggerating – does it ever occur to that cop brain of yours that maybe, just maybe, what you did was a crime?”

 

“That’s not what it is –”

 

“Even if it wasn’t, you’re saying you’re playing me to your own advantage –”

 

“I did it to protect myself!”

 

Another car honks. It barely registers to either men.

 

“'Selfish son of a bitch', is what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” Steve bites back bitterly. “Just because I’m the one in charge, doesn’t make me invincible. We’re both responsible for ourselves, so how does that make me any more wicked than the other person?”

 

It does not, but Tony is done. He pushes his gear into “D” and re-joins the traffic. Steve is still clutching the door.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Your place, aren’t we?”

 

Trust, what trust? He’s just another mannequin on strings, isn’t he?


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I rewrote and added new paragraphs to the previous chapter for clarification. I understand some events appear unexpectedly - they're not supposed to - so I've fleshed out said parts :)

Tony feels a little deflated as he parks his car by the monsoon drain.

 

He’s angry because, reasons. No, that’s not good enough – it’s been two decades since he was twelve. He plucks his key from the ignition and stews in silence for a bit, allowing Steve some head start in locking and unlocking whatever’s necessary. If only Tony can be honest with himself: this isn’t really about the test report, is it? Steve’s only doing all he can to make sure he’s in the clear - that he’s healthy, and by extension, his partner as well.

 

And that's Tony. But why doesn’t knowing this help him feel better?

 

So Steve hasn’t been very truthful about their _relationship_. Despite the fact that this very information was volunteered by Steve himself, Tony still finds it hard to swallow. His insides flare something hot when he recalls how Steve admits to – quoting the Lieutenant himself – _inspecting_ him as he showers. It makes his skin crawl, his throat tight. It makes him feel like he’s whoring himself for a good night out. Like he’s not an actual individual, an object to be checked for flaws.

 

But just because Tony is more _trusting_ – which also means he’s been a reckless idiot just committing to this risky affair without taking precautions, what was he thinking, really – doesn’t automatically make Steve a selfish bastard.

 

Steve holds the door open. He stands by it, patiently waiting for Tony to come out of the car.

 

Look at it from Steve’s point of view. Walk in Steve’s shoes. His methods, questionable. His intentions, reasonable. Does it automatically exonerate Steve? He’s doing the best he could. _Steve tried._

 

It’s got to count for something.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony closes the door behind him but doesn’t follow Steve to the sitting room. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back.

 

And he says, “Thank you.”

 

Steve stops halfway through clearing his messy coffee table. The stack of DVD has been moved from one end of the table to another, and there seems to be more folders lying around. Tony looks up from the floor to meet Steve squarely in the eye.

 

“Thank you for being honest with me. It’s a rarity, these days. I mean, look at Obadiah. The less said about it the better. Speaking of which, I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly for saving me from the shanghaiing at the coffee house. So, thank you.”

 

Steve goes back to moving a particularly thick blue ring folder on the armchair.

 

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Good night, Steve.”

 

“Sam just got me a laser-printed, 3D puzzle… thing,” Steve says suddenly. A weak smile is playing on his lips. Not a shred of annoyance, or disappointment for all the shit Tony just accused him of doing. His patience deserves a Noble Peace Prize. Nirvana-worthy. “Actually I haven’t had the time to work on it, but tonight seems as good as any.”

 

“A 3D puzzle thing?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Tony pushes himself off the door.

 

“Steve, I –”

 

“I don’t blame you.” Steve squats and rummages the mess under the coffee table for a cuboidal box. “Besides, this is the fourth week, isn’t it?”

 

Tony blinks, confused. “Fourth week of what?”

 

“Of this. Of us.”

 

“So?”

 

“I don’t want us to part ways angry.”

 

Part ways? Why do they have to part ways? They’re only beginning to know each other.

 

“I never told you, but I do follow your columns. I enjoyed them. Never told you that either, so.”

 

This cannot be goodbye.

 

“Two pairs of eyes and hands should be enough to assemble this Gundam thing tonight. I’ve got tools –”

 

“No.”

 

Steve’s face falls. “It’s… not the best way to spend Friday night, I admit.”

 

“I’m not leaving.” This feels even worse than dealing with Stane, than the lab report he can’t believe he just chewed Steve out for, or Sam’s geeky present. “Unless you want me to.”

 

“I don’t know what else I can do for you.”

 

“I still have a book to write, remember?”

 

“No, you don’t.” Steve climbs to his feet, the box of puzzle remains unopened behind him. “You’re not meeting with Stane anymore.”

 

“I can always go to a different publishing house. It’s not about Stane. It’s about –” _Us?_ “– the story. I can’t continue without you.”

 

Tony hopes the silent stare Steve is giving is him actually considering the proposition. Their contract is the one thing that defines what they are. A liaison founded on necessity.

 

“OK.”

 

And the next step becomes suddenly clear. It isn’t just a cheap distraction – Tony thinks he actually needs it.

 

“So, still want to build the model?”

 

“I want to work.”

 

He thinks, he can do it right this time.

 

“You’re going back to the office? It’s already past nine.”

 

“No. Work. On the book.” Tony approaches Steve and plants himself right _there,_ a mere breath away from each other.

 

“Ask it.”

 

“Now? Are you sure?”

 

“Never been surer.”

 

Don’t deny him.

 

Steve studies Tony evenly. He's searching for a hint of doubt, a sign that this is another spur-of-the-moment thing that Tony is so prone to doing. But after what feels like a full minute, he whispers, “Permission.”

 

“Yes.”

 

This is where they’re most comfortable being. This is all that they have.

 

“Strip, Tony. Not a thread on your body.”

 


	28. Chapter 28

“Go have a shower.”

 

Subtle.

 

Oh, Tony knows he reeks. He’s spent the whole day out and he doesn’t exactly sweat perfume, and he thinks his hair carries a waft of formaldehyde. Day-to-day grime just sticks to him like a plaster. He peels his day clothes off with gratitude – he even tries to fold the God-awful armpit stain away from plain sight, this is by far the unsexiest striptease in history – and stands like a flagpole in the middle of the sitting room.

 

Ta-da.

 

He’s soon marching his ass to the bathroom. He starts the shower and flattens both palms against the tiled wall, and practically mewls as water patters on his back. Water pressure here is so much better than what he has at home. And in these moments of quietness, he’s just realised how bone tired he is. He’s slowly crashing from the ensuing subsidence of adrenaline – so maybe just ten seconds? He’s going to close his eyes for ten seconds, let the sleep fairy prance about him a bit before –

 

“Tony?”

 

The door opens. Tony slides a hand across his face so he can be sure that the door is _really sliding open_ – what must a man do to get some privacy around here – and in pops a clean bath towel.

 

“It’s new,” the gift-bearing arm says. The rest of Steve remains hidden from view.

 

If he thinks having Steve walking in and out of the bathroom when he’s still using it is annoying, wait until he gets out of it. He wraps the towel around his waist and pads over to the sitting room, but Steve is not there.

 

The bedroom door is ajar, though. Light leaks out to the hallway through the gap.

 

Tony sits on the couch and itches to prop his feet on the now uncluttered coffee table. Not a single folder can be seen – what, Steve thinks he’ll just flip through confidential police cases when no one’s watching? – while the box of 3D puzzle is back under the table.

 

“Ready?”

 

Tony swallows thickly as Steve walks towards him. Steve is only sporting a thin, white undershirt that leaves nothing to imagination, and some faded sweatpants that's showing too much hips. Looped loosely about his shoulders is that familiar roll of red, nylon rope.

 

“Uh, are you stringing me up like a carcass again?”

 

Steve drops his gaze to the knot in Tony’s towel. “You’re not OK with that?”

 

Last time he got strung up from the ceiling for one whole hour, the marks stayed for days. Guess who saw it and then took advantage of it?

 

“Sit on the table.”

 

So, no more swinging from the ceiling then. Small mercies.

 

“Lie back.”

 

It’s not a very big coffee table. There’s only enough space for his upper body, but hell if he’s going to dangle his head off the edge of the table. Bring out the guillotine! Tony arranges himself so that it can at least support half of his head and part of his thighs. Then he looks straight ahead and concentrates on the pulley under the ceiling.

 

“Your arms.”

 

“What about them?”

 

“Put them up.”

 

Details, details, right? Is it up by ninety degree or all the way back hundred and eighty? He goes for something in between – so that they kind of point at the pulley, only for Steve to wrangle them down to the table, him the very depiction of a half-naked starfish. He feels the rough nylon cord around his wrists and suddenly has the urge to remind Steve not to do the knots too tightly – but can he? Should he?

 

Steve’s working on his legs now. Tony struggles weakly in his bonds, testing the handiwork without gusto. Happily, all the tussling has loosened his towel that’s the only thing affording him modesty. He sighs and knocks his head twice on the table – _stupid, stupid!_

 

“Eager, are we now?”

  
Steve takes a corner of the towel and – to Tony’s dismay – pulls it free from his body. He’s spread out bare.

 

Straightening up, Steve dangles a blood red necktie in front of him, and very casually says, “I’m taking your eyes tonight. Safeword?”

 

“Can we use the same one as the last?”

 

“… Sure.”

 

“Uh, what was it again?”

 

“Banana, Tony.”

 

“My God. For real?”

 

“You want to change it?”

 

“Nuh-uh. Sounds like a good boner killer.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes before slipping the necktie around Tony's head, dunking him into utter darkness. Now, he has a little trivia to share about these critters inhabiting the deepest of ocean floors. They’re usually God ugly looking, and blind. Very blind. Having no need of their eyes because sunlight doesn’t reach these levels, they rely on other senses for guidance. Some of them develop badass sonar, and Tony feels a sense of comradery with these things. He sees nothing, but taking hints from the little sounds that Steve’s making around him, he pictures the entire scene unfolding in his mind eyes. He thinks he hears a rustle of clothes on his right, which means Steve is probably sticking his tongue out, making juvenile faces at him – the little shit – only to jolt in shock as something slick and warm is poured over his chest. 

 

Steve spreads the liquid over Tony’s neck and shoulder blades, and Tony finds himself melting into those hands as they knead the tense muscles under them. Long thumbs brush past his earlobes before they slide lower, over his sternum. Wherever Steve goes, it leaves a mild burning sensation in its wake. Like menthol. Hot and cold at once, and Steve pushes his thumbs in one long stroke over his abdomen, from his hips to just under his breast.

 

Then Steve is gone.

 

Tony swallows his disgruntles and flexes his arms. The ropes are going to leave their marks again. He feels his stomach cooking up a rumble, and it eventually does rumble something awful, but eh, at least it’s just him here, sure saves him some embarrassment, but –

 

Something cool, round and smooth circles his bottom lip. Tony turns away, but it follows, a persistent rub on his chin. OK, he’ll bite. His mouth parts a little, and the little globe slips in. It’s cool on the warmth of his tongue. A grape. Steve feeds him another, and another, and each one Tony eats hungrily – skin, flesh and seeds.

 

Oh hey, it’s Steve’s finger!

 

Tony laps onto the digit as Steve is pushing another grape into his mouth. He wraps his tongue around it, sucking on the remnant of grape juice and he pictures Steve blushing like a bride on her first night.

 

Yeah, who was he kidding?

 

Steve thrusts in another finger, and pushes down on Tony’s tongue. Holy shit, the bride has turned into a ninja. Steve wrestles for dominance, digging around Tony’s oral cavity, callous finger pads scrapping the roof of his mouth – Tony releases him, wondering if that is Steve’s idea of a punishment for being a prick.

 

In that case, bring it on.


	29. Chapter 29

Sometimes, the pressure applied hits _right_ home. It soothes and it heals. Intimate beyond belief. Steve’s seasoned hands are back to massaging Tony’s weary flesh and bones, carving their paths over his torso. It’s the first time another man has laid hands on him this way, affording him more attention than he could ever ask for. So, Tony is generous with feedbacks. Anywhere that feels good, he either smiles or sighs appreciatively.

 

Steve hones in to every one of them.   

 

His methods are both tactical and nuanced. Steve’s modelling a binary mind map of rights and wrongs – what makes Tony ache for more, what makes him ache, literally. Tony is glad that Steve is moving away from his jugular and one of the dips between his ribs – it did _hurt_ – that after venturing to and covering every inch of his upper body with oil, Steve starts compiling all the body cues he’s gleaned so far.

 

And then, and then, and then.

 

Tony closes his eyes as Steve revisits those trails of massage. He can’t help losing himself in the darkness – this is comfort, this is bliss. Not a touch out of place, and he lets himself drift, only to be pulled back when cosiness takes a turn into…

 

He’s hard. He’s lying face up, limbs pulled apart and he’s _hard_.

 

Tony blinks furiously – still unseeing – and notes the subtle changes to Steve’s tempo and strokes. Those hands are still going places, but they’re idling about his pelvis, tracing the edge of his bones. They go over the sides of his buttocks, slide over the thighs and foray into the curls of his pubic hair.

 

No way Steve hasn’t known of the “issue” he’s sporting.

 

His nipples are itching – they’re icy hot where stray oil droplets hang from –

 

Steve grips his cock and starts pumping it in earnest. Tony’s throws his hip up into the air, conspicuously begging for all the friction in the world to be focused _right there_. Right where he needs it. Steve’s large, warm hand envelopes his girth – covering a satisfying expanse – and works it like he wants this just as much. The more Tony struggles, the faster Steve goes. It’s as intense as it is imperfect. Steve can go a little too wild, a little too hard that sends ripples of tension over the length of his naked body. Mercifully, that too does not escape Steve and he slows down, gently coaxing Tony back into the carnal rhythm.

 

And it’s a constant, upward build that burns. Yes, yes, _yes…_

Steve disappears. He’s not touching Tony anymore, not talking, not _being._ There’s only Tony stewing in a goop of sexual frustration, and he's about to drop a series of choice words when Steve’s lips brush suddenly against his temple.

 

Steve smells like baby powder. It’s the first time that Tony’s been able to pick up this scent. Steve’s. Talcum white.

 

“This is a timer.”

 

Something small, light and plastic to the touch is placed over his heart.

 

“Every two minutes, it’ll beep. And when you hear the beep, I want you to call out a number. One to five. Five being your point of no return.” Tony tries to ingrain these instructions into the jelly that is his brain. “Only call out your number after the beep. If you climax before my say so, there’ll be consequences. Repeat what I said.”

 

Tony feels heat rising from his face.

 

“Call out one to five after the beeps.”

 

It’s a good enough gist.

 

“Don’t… don’t come till you say so.”

 

_Beep!_

“… Four.”

 

With a world class handjob like that, it’ll be an insult to Steve’s talents if it were anything lower. To Tony’s utmost horror, Steve _ups and leaves_ , completely unconcerned with the fact that his guest is still lying naked and tied to his coffee table just _seconds_ away from going Old Faithful.

 

“Oh no, no, no! Steve, you can’t leave me here!”

 

Tony next hears a door sliding and the splattering of shower water on the floor. He slips meekly onto the table in his bonds and knocks the back of his head into the table again.

 

“Dick.”

 

The problem with being left alone to his own device, blind and horizontal is that, it’s perfect for catching his forty winks. And couple that with the lullaby of running water – he bet Steve is going to take the longest shower a man ever had since water heating was created… so, guess what? Good night, Steve, good fucking night.

 

“Tony?”

 

Tony starts – that was super quick – and he searches for the voice. He quickly sees Steve standing over him, peering down on him.

 

But why is he seeing Steve? Isn’t there a necktie involved somewhere?

 

“Uh…”

 

“You were snoring a little.”

 

Tony also sees that Steve has a damp towel draping one shoulder and his hair is matted down from the shower.

 

_Beep!_

How many beeps has he missed in his nap anyway?

 

“One,” he admits sheepishly. And Steve actually laughs though Tony fails to see what’s so amusing. Then Steve bows out of the scene, goes down to his knees, and begins to unravel the ropes around Tony's ankles.

 

“What are you –”

 

“You’re tired, Tony. We can do this another day.”

 

“No, I can do this now, no need to –”

 

Steve changes gear so quickly that he knows this has gone back to feeling good before he understands that Steve is _making out_ with his balls. He’s up again in an instant, and by the next _beep!_ he breathlessly says, “Three” while Steve runs his tongue along the vein of his cock. Just when he thinks Steve is going to give _it_ , just when the lips inch closer to the head, he slides back down to the balls and nurses _them_ with care.

 

Cocktease.

 

“Where’s the Cobra Libre I gave you?” Steve asks as he muzzles Tony’s thigh.

 

“My car? In the… the trunk. I think.”

 

“Shame. Would love to put it on you.”

 

Is this supposed to be a prologue to dirty talking? Shame on _you,_ Steve.

 

“How often do you masturbate after we got together?”

 

“I don’t.” Tony sucks in a breath as Steve nuzzles into his cock.

 

_Beep!_

“Three… point five?”

 

Then Steve is gone.

 

Again.

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

He doesn’t have the stamina for this, damn it.

 

Is Steve actually having fun? Steve must be having fun. He’s definitely taking great satisfaction leering down on Tony, a spread of buffet on the coffee table that hasn’t stopped creaking since Steve parks his face between his thighs, and –  

 

 _That’s it_.

 

Then Steve sits in the armchair and checks the messages on his cell phones, the blood red necktie lying wantonly on the floor. He’s not making things up - Steve chooses his phone over a very naked and bothered Tony, it’s unbelievable. Is he perusing Facebook? Archive of Our Own? Come on, there’s a job that needs finishing here!

 

He groans and calls Steve’s ancestors of eighteen generations a certain breed of tortoise, and Steve gives him a once over, from the glistening collar bones to the not-flagging cock, before returning to tap on the screen of his phone. Really, what can be worse, right? How can the ante possibly be upped –

 

Steve puts a finger to his lips, a bid for Tony to be quiet. Tony, who still steadfastly believe that he deserves better than this, nods anyway.

 

“Sam? What did the Feds say?”

 

No, no, _no!_ Steve’s not working. Not now, not –

 

“Consider the other points that don’t add up. I don’t want us to be jumping the gun here.”

 

_Beep!_

Tony purses his lips and remains silent. He watches the all-too-familiar frown returning to Steve’s face, which he is going to interpret as not-outright-disapproval at the lack of bingo calling. Steve shakes his head lightly, and turns to the clock mounted above the TV set.

 

It’s half past ten.

 

“I get that those that do line up perfectly. _Too_ perfectly. I’m saying let’s take a step back and re-consider the evidence.”

 

Tony can’t stay _up_ between the police talk and a suspicion that it concerns Stane somehow. He’s flagging, and he ignores the next beep of the timer on his chest.

 

He flinches when Steve’s oily hand returns to cup his sacs. He’s still on the phone with Sam, but there’s no mistake in the touch. Delicate and deliberate, and a finger runs over the vein that goes alongside the entire length. Steve’s turned himself away so he’s not exactly watching what he’s doing, and it doesn’t matter. He’s folded his fingers into a victory sign, a “V” that’s now moving torturously upward and downward with Tony’s cock clamped between. There’s only so much Tony can take before the strain gets to him – the sensation of bursting his load off to getting cut off at Steve’s whim and fancy – so he sags onto the table, fully expecting Steve to just leave him again when he’s almost done.

 

Steve steals another glance at the table.

 

Then he closes his palm over the head, so wet and needy, and he squeezes. Tony hisses – what gives, Steve has been avoiding that particular area so far – and Steve mumbles something, flustered, as if Sam has just asked what’s going on this side of the phone call. Still he doesn’t let go, and Tony’s body responds.

 

He’s desperate. Let this be it, no more.

 

“Good night, Sam.”

 

Steve tosses the phone over his shoulder that it bounces off the armchair behind him, and he places that free hand around the base of Tony’s pulsating cock. Twists and pushes and pulls that meld into something divine, and Tony’s gasping for air. He’s throbbing – a hint of pain, a real stab in the flesh that’s both startling and troubling – and he looks down to Steve.

 

Steve is still observing him. Really observing with his head framed by Tony’s knees. Then he smirks, playful but somewhat distant, before he closes his lips over the head.

 

There’s a loud knock, skull on wood, and Tony thrashes. It burns and it hurts – oversensitivity gripping him like a vice where Steve’s tongue traverses – but there’s the undertone of release buried under all these. An undercurrent of something amazing.

 

“Steve,” he breathes, and his sphincter clenches. He has to have it this time. “Please…” Doesn’t care if it takes some begging. “Please, I can’t – don’t –”

 

“Come.”

 

He lets go.

 

The next thing he knows, his knuckles are hitting the floor. It’s too bright and Steve’s too far away. Touches that he's too numb to perceive. They’re everywhere. He squints, and feels the drape of a thick blanket over him.

 

“You’re OK.” It’s the same faraway calling. “Breathe slowly.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s something special about waking up next to someone else in the bed.

 

Tony blinks once, blinks twice, blinks _hard_ and Steve is still beside him, on his back snoring very politely. A very corporeal Steve, Tony manages to confirm – he runs the back of his hand down the side of Steve’s face, past the 70’s sideburn to the impossibly drool-free chin.

 

There’s something special about it, indeed. And he’s done it twice. The first time, in a frat house. He was drunk. _They_ were drunk. The second one was with – good God – Virginia “Pepper” Potts. That was equal part wild and weird, and he still hasn’t _quite_ gotten over it. Not because it was good – to her defence, it wasn’t terrible either – it just wasn’t right.

 

And nope, no flashbacks of what actually went down, thank you.

 

Steve’s blue eyes are suddenly looking back at him.

 

“Hey,” he greets, voice still rough from the sleep. He’s beautiful under the glimmer of sunlight. Tony takes it all in. Blonde hair that sticks out in every angle imaginable that’s also almost translucent, and the whiff of baby powder as he turns slightly in his pillows.

 

“Morning,” Tony returns. “Can’t believe you’re still here, hanging around.”

 

Pepper is always gone by the time he wakes. Like what they’d done was good business before sunrise, and after, they’re nothing.

 

“It _is_ my house. Where else will I be?”

 

“Mm. Point.”

 

“I lay out some fresh clothes for you on the chair. Towel’s there, too. What else do you need… I got a spare new toothbrush in a cabinet somewhere…”

 

It’s still probably too early to be awake on a Saturday morning. He's sluggish in the head, and social politeness isn’t something that comes naturally to him, especially when he’s lacking two brain cells to rub against. He's also very... _visually invested_  in the tent of the blanket over Steve’s waist. There’s a gap between _then_ and now – not even the slightest of touch or an echo of words – and he should really be concerned, but this isn’t like that, despite the mishap that is Stane.

 

There is clearly a dangerous lack of self-preservation here.

 

His head hurts just trying to reconcile these feelings. Still, some thoughts are easier to process.

 

He doesn’t philosophise what comes next. He palms over Steve’s morning wood, through all the layers of barriers that are useless in hiding the rigid shaft he’s caressing.

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

Steve’s blue, _blue_ eyes are fixed on him, and they’ve gone unmistakably hazy. Regardless, he doesn’t stop Tony’s ministrations, and Tony understands it. An option to walk away. Leave.

 

“But I want to.”

 

He pulls the blanket off Steve and kneels between the legs.

 

Only then, one thing cuts through the fog in his mind: _I don’t know what to do._


	31. Chapter 31

If this were a chapter straight from a novella, then it’s like… 30 000 words later and Tony thinks he knows everything there is to know about a guy. Like Steve’s middle name – if he even has one – or his favourite colour, or how he likes his coffee and eggs in the morning. Or not. There’s always something else. But, they can fix that later. Later being someplace else that’s not a bedroom, later when both of them are decently dressed and _not_ biologically excited.

 

Tony slides the waistband of Steve’s pants to mid-thigh – Steve helpfully lifts his waist, unprompted – and his Jack-in-the-Jukebox says hey.

 

Hey.

 

Tony’s hands clamp over Steve’s thighs – the parts that are still covered in clothes – because he’s too much of a pussy to finally claim what he’s asked for. He licks his dry lips, deliberates for what feels like an entire minute while mentally rallying himself to Just Do It ✓

 

So, Steve’s reaches out for him, a reassuring hand that closes over the back of his – oh, he’s gripping Steve’s thighs too hard. Now those toes are going gangrenous. But Steve doesn’t hurry him. He props himself easily against the headboard, and watches nothing unfold through half-lidded eyes. A callous thumb draws idle circles over a knuckle. A small smile sent Tony’s way, content and innocent.

 

Baby steps, how ‘bout that?

 

Tony hesitantly wraps his fingers around the base of Steve’s erection. He uses the heel of his palms to work the scrotums, and he hears a reciprocated sigh in turn.

 

That’s good. That’s progress.

 

There’s a first time for everything, right?

 

Tony has never engaged in such… _endeavours_ with the male species. It’s his first time touching another man’s penis – though he’s seen quite a few onscreen, but nothing compares to having one in flesh and blood – probably the first time he’s going to blow a guy.

 

First time he’s touched Steve.

 

“Do you… uh,” Tony chews the inside of his cheeks as he chooses his words, “Well, after… you know, you’re done with me, do you ever have to go relief yourself?” Tony slowly slides his fist over the tip, and he starts again from the bottom, this time lubricated with Steve’s own. “I mean, I always get my share when we do it, and it’s selfish of me not to think of you, too.”

 

Steve folds an arm behind his head. “Every single time.”

 

The one-man tent in Tony’s pants is a friggin’ gazebo right now.

 

Tony takes his time – it’s fine, it’s always hardest to get off in the morning anyway – and feasts on the expanse of skin before him. Just under the hem of Steve’s shirt, over his left hip bone is a mark that Tony has seen before – familiar, but not on Steve.

 

A little red, five-pointed star.

 

From afar, it could’ve been easily dismissed as a birth mark or a scratch. Steve tightens his hand that is still covering Tony’s. He, too is looking at the tattoo that Tony has just been ogling, and his features grow cold.

 

His cock starts to weaken in Tony’s grip.

 

Then all of a sudden, it’s in Tony’s mouth. Tony’s bowed over it, his lips a ring over the head, and he dares to stick his tongue out. He has _not_ the first inkling of what he should be doing in the next millisecond, but it’s too late for retractions. He pulls out a bit, his teeth grazing the foreskin by mistake and Steve gasps – the kind one gives after accidentally touching a boiling hot kettle.

 

All right. His bad. No teeth.

 

So, Steve is essentially loaning his dick for Tony to practice blowjob on. He can work with that.

 

To which Steve adds quickly, “Just don’t bite anything off.”

 

Taking a deep breath and feeling his confidence chip away, Tony dives again, engulfing it all the way to the middle. This is as far as he thinks he can manage without going bulimic all over Steve. And being this close to Steve’s lower abdomen, from this angle and with the appropriate play of light, he glimpses something else.

 

To the right of Steve’s navel, there is a faded scar, two inches across.

 

Tony peers through the tuft of blonde pubic hair, all the while having an internal round table discussion about the appropriateness of asking Steve about the tattoo or the scar, but Steve is already _so lost_ in himself. And everything else vanishes. No more questions, no more coherency _._ Tony stills his tongue and pistons over the cock, saliva dribbling down his chin.

 

Fingers thread and fist around Tony’s hair, urging him to let up.

 

Tony sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with his sleeves. And thank the Gods for this VIP front seat to the spectacle of Steve surrendering to his needs. His breaths are shallow and hushed, desperate but controlled, and he gives himself a few good tugs before his body heaves, semen erupting in short bursts onto his stomach.

 

Tony hasn’t realised he’s stopped breathing himself.

 

Steve reclines into his pillows, the lines of his muscles still tense after the exertion.

 

“You know,” because this is what Tony does when things get too quiet. “If I look anything like you, I'll watch myself do that in front of the mirror every morning before I go to work.”

 

Good job, people, high fives all around. That’s enough cardio for the day. Now Tony wants nothing more than to hit the shower and clean himself off everything – he needs to raid Steve’s medicine cabinet for that spare toothbrush he said he may have…

 

“Tony, I’ve been thinking.”

 

It’s the talk. They’re having a talk. The talk right _after_ that’s usually about 1) don’t take this too seriously, it’s just good fun, or 2) let’s not see each other again.

 

“Since you’re writing your book… technically it’s a new project all together. So, do you want to review our prior arrangements? Tweak them to better suit your needs?”

 

Like, make amends to the clause about not having sex?


	32. Chapter 32

Tony is _not_ driving himself into a corner.

 

“Which part of it do you want to change?” he asks instead.

 

Because between their state of debauchery and a nagging feeling that there could be more, it’s pretty obvious which of the five sacred rules that Steve’s referring to.

 

Naturally –

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“Look, I’m fine with our current arrangements. Don’t see why we need to change anything.”

 

Breakfast is largely a muted affair, and Tony doesn’t stay for lunch. He lingers long enough for his clothes to come out toasty from the dryer, and goes through e-mails and the dailies to while away time. It’s not his fault for being nigh unsociable – the lord of the house himself is nose-deep in his mountain of documents.

 

Tony’s hand crawls closer to “Case 161103-2: Private and confidential” before being promptly slapped away. Good to know that Steve still remembers he’s around.

 

Good to know, too that he's getting out of Steve's hair soon. He finds himself standing at the doorway, about to take his leave.

 

“Thank you for putting me up for the night.”

 

Everything appears to be in order. He has on his own clothes. Whatever he’s borrowed from Steve is in the hamper.

 

“Enjoy your weekend.”

 

Then all of a sudden Steve's leaning forward, and Tony sees it all unfold in slow motion. Events captured in frames. He’s close enough to see the hint of stubbles on Steve’s chin –

 

And Steve grabs the door knob and pulls it open.

 

... Right.

 

Tony sticks his foot out in the gap, holding it ajar. “Thanks.”

 

“I didn’t want to take advantage of you. That’s why I asked. It’s not… not that.”

 

The familiar waft of baby powder again.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Tony. But I want you to know that… that I’ll always stand by our arrangements. 'Course, I can’t just ask you to trust me on that, but I feel like I need to –”

 

“Stop. Why are you saying all these?”

 

“Your safety is my priority.”

 

“My _safety_?”

 

“There are _so many ways_ this can go downhill, believe me.” Tony edges to the door. He doesn’t miss the sudden turn of bitterness, of dripping frustration in Steve’s voice. “But I care about this. About you.”

 

It's all very profound, Tony's sure. “You lost me. I have _no idea_ what you meant. Anyway,” he talks louder over Steve. His turn now. “I don’t know what’s going on, so I’ll have _you_ know that I’m 36 years old. All right? Means I’m a fully consenting adult. Not a sprightly young ‘un, either. I can take care of myself. So dial down on all these… uh, mollycoddling. I don’t handle mollycoddling very well.”

 

And at long last, Steve nods again.

 

* * *

 

“Fan mails!”

 

An avalanche of papers – some pieces of blue-lined foolscap, mostly 80 g printing paper – tumble all over the keyboard Tony is _still_ banging away on. He recognises his name on some of the enveloped ones, and decides not to crumple them into paper cannon balls and launches them at Rhodey just yet. He’s never received so many letters from his readers. A stupid grin is quickly forming on his face, and he looks up to Rhodey, who’s mirroring the same ridiculous expression.   


“ _Omakase_ for lunch afterward?”

 

Rhodey pumps his hand in the air.

 

“Stark!”

 

Bosses are literal fun-suckers with the worst possible timing. Moses versus the Great Sea of Jubilation.

 

“In my office. Now.”

 

* * *

 

“Mind. Blown.” Rhodey pops another piece of _edamame_ into his mouth, his teeth scrapping the beans out of their garlic, sea-salt and black pepper toasted pods. “ _Investigative journalist_?”

 

“Yep. What the boss said.”

 

Rhodey whistles. “Man, that’s… that’s fantastic.”

 

“Yeah? Some call it a death sentence.”

 

“Depends on who you ask. Most do it because it’s the right thing to do. Besides,” they pull their arms from the table top as delicate bars of Saga beef, lightly seared and dressed with saffron flakes are placed before them. “Uh, _arigatou_. Besides,” Rhodey picks up his chopsticks. “Nobody’s forcing you to take the job, if you don’t want it, I mean.”

 

“It’s Hammer. He quit.”

 

“Huh. I get this feeling that someone’s missing from the office. Why?”

 

 “Don’t know. Maybe he dug too deep and decided to high-tail? Maybe his girlfriend asks him to do something else?”

 

“He’s married, Tony.”

 

“We learn new stuff every day, don’t we? Anyway, I’ll probably be taking over his outstanding cases.”

 

The freedom to pursue any subject of import, of real interest, to the deepest depths. Something more than hollow, glamourous "edge". Truths that matter. What else can Tony possibly ever ask for?


	33. Chapter 33

“Tony, are you still at work?”

 

“No. Been out for an hour half, actually. Why?”

 

It’s Steve on the phone and six in the evening. On a Wednesday. _And_ he’s not slogging away at the desk. Taking up the new job really feels like trading social class. A pay raise, flexi-hours, fewer dead lines…

 

That’s how he finds himself slouched on a hard plastic chair pressing a cotton wad to his arm because the nurses ran out of band aids.

 

“We had a meeting at a branch station near your office. We’re done now, and I’m thinking maybe we can have dinner together?”

 

“I’m uh,” At least the blood has clotted. He tosses the cotton ball into the bin. “I’m at the clinic.”

 

“The clinic?" There's a scratchy noise on Steve's mouthpiece. "What happened?”

 

“I’m ordering a test for myself. HIV, hepatitis of all alphabets available. They run out of sticky tapes by the way, so I’m holding the cotton in place with my other hand and now I have crams in my neck wedging the phone with my shoulder. Be grateful.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Now you’re just forcing it.”

 

“I mean it, Tony.” He can hear the strain in Steve's intonations. “Thank you. For doing this.”

 

“Yeah… well, it’s my responsibility, too. I hear honks. Are you driving?”

 

“Hands free phone conversation. It’s safe.”

 

“Still want that dinner?”

 

“Still starving. Want me to pick you up?”

 

“I’m driving. Wanna go load up on LDL and cholesterol? There’s a McDonald by the roundabout, do you know where –”

 

“The one with the monstrous Ronald McDonald statue at the drive-thru?”

 

“Why, somebody’s afraid of clowns?”

 

“… On my way there. See you, Tony.”

 

Well, somebody’s getting a pair of Chucky plushies for his birthday. Tony only needs to find when.

 

* * *

 

“Congratulations. It’s what you’ve always wanted to do.” They tap their coffee-laden paper cups about the rim, a toast to Tony’s eloquent proclamation of I’m-officially-an-investigative-journalist-see-my-shiny-new-badge.

 

“Thank you. And thank _you_. The column helped, too. The bosses figured I’d be good enough for actual research and discreet reporting, plus a colleague just quit his job, so they needed that spot filled.”

 

“You’re talking Panama Papers-esque reporting.”

 

“Yeah. But that’s a game-changing break. I don’t even know what my first assignment is yet.”

 

“Sounds dangerous.”

 

“Sounds _satisfying_. I can’t go around writing about, I don’t know, constipated cows or Chris Evans’ new boo.”

 

“Who’s Chris Evans?”

 

“Some guy from Boston. My point is,” Tony wriggles a French fry for emphasis, “there is nothing else other than this. A dogged hunt for the truths, and their unbiased reveal to the public. Remember what I told you in the very beginning? About writing something edgy? This is the hole in the wire fence. My escape from the circus.”

 

“Anthony Edward Stark! Oh my God, it’s really you!”

 

Jesus Christ, only one person on Earth calls him that. Strawberry blonde hair sweeps over his face and something soft and smells like vanilla slams into his back. There’s also a continuous – almost hysteric – exclamation of “It’s been so long!” and “I thought you were dead!”

 

“OK, nobody’s dying here, uh, back up a bit lady, do I know you?”

 

She slaps him over his shoulder.

 

“Pepper, still the feisty beauty from the 90’s.”

 

“You don’t text me anymore.”

 

“You changed your number.”

 

“I did, didn’t I?”

 

“Steve, meet Virginia Potts. Pepper, Steve Rogers.”

 

She needs some calming down, and he needs one freaking minute to make sense of what-why- _how_ -is-Pepper-Potts-here-in-McDonald? Steve shakes her proffered hand, and Tony rolls his eyes when he catches Pepper doing the Pepper Spray of Attention. It’s subtle, it’s private. Above all, it’s dangerous. _Nothing_ escapes her.

 

And Tony’s been on the receiving end one too many times.

 

“I hope Tony treats you well, Steve. He’s a handful at times –”

 

“Pepper! Why! Uh – _what_ brings you down to this sleepy town in Northern California?”

 

“It’s Sacramento, it’s not that bad. I’m here for work. We’re trying to secure distributive right for a certain software bundle. Just had some documents photocopied, then I was getting a burger to go… and you happen!” She turns to Steve, then back to Tony. She has on an impossibly wide grin, Tony doesn’t believe even the happiest person alive is capable of having.

 

“OK, don’t want to intrude on your date.”

 

Steve chokes on his coke.

 

“We need to catch up, Tony. Here’s my number.”

 

She slides her name card near Tony’s elbow.

 

“You sure this isn’t contemporary to last decade or something?”

 

“It was printed last Monday. Good night, gentlemen.”

 

And then she’s gone in a whirlwind. The silence from the spot where she stood not two seconds ago was palpable.

 

“… Well, I got fan mails, too. Wanna read some?”


	34. Chapter 34

Crap… rubbish… and… garbage.

 

It’s what defines these twin boxes of files and folders and notes with the words “J. Hammer” written with a red marker on their sides. Tony’s hard-pressed to find even one gold nugget – and he’s not dissing the guy because he doesn’t like him – there’s just nothing remotely interesting that’s worth investigating.

 

He’s also _not_ saying this because he has to sell more papers – gee, that part of the job description hasn’t changed at all.

 

The best case Tony’s discovered after trawling through the pile is about rampant corruption in schools, especially when it comes to granting tenders. There’s evidence of cosmetic adjustments to POs and procurement filings, but hey. This is rampant _everywhere._ And the fact that this case is buried under other crappier stuff proves that nobody thinks it’s worth investigating either.

 

Kudos for the effort, though. Tony squints at the bottom of a yellowed receipt. A 20, 000 dollars MacBook? Yikes.

 

He’s moving on to a smaller, gaudily coloured plastic box labelled “UFO?” when his phone buzzes.

 

_No, I don’t have Chucky dolls, nor do I own any Barbies. Try eBay. BTW, I’m leaving for New York tomorrow noon. Want to meet up later? The same McD at 7? Pep._

* * *

 

“No…” Pepper covers her gaping mouth with her hand, the engagement ring on her finger a distracting shimmer. So much time has passed between “Goodbye, Tony” and yesterday night. Apparently she's engaged to the Head of Security of her company. It'll be officially "Mrs Hogan" by the next summer. Meanwhile, Tony is… well.

 

“You haven’t told Steve? Anything at all? Tony, are you still… _closeted?_ ”

 

“Pepper, please. I haven’t seen you in eight years and you’re suddenly all over my case.”

 

“Ten, actually. And yes, you’re a very important friend. Of course I want to see you happy.”

 

Tony has nothing to say to that. He swirls hot coffee with a straw and watches the vortex moodily.

 

“You don’t want to be leading him on if you’ve no intention of –”

 

“Nobody’s leading anybody on.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“He doesn’t _know_ , Pep. For all he knows, I’m the straightest man a man can ever be.”

 

“You didn’t tell me, either. But I know.”

 

“You’re – you’re…” Tony deflates. “You’re something else. Smart, sharp, beautiful –”

 

“We talked about this, Tony.”

 

“Sorry.” And it’ll never be enough. He took so much of her, unknowingly reduced her to a test subject just so he could be sure he actually does swing _that_ way. He said the usual stupid thing when she started to cry: it’s not her, it’s him. She struck him hard across his face – he deserved that – but eventually, they agreed that things just weren’t meant to be.

 

“What are you afraid of?”

 

“Who says I’m afraid?”

 

“ _Everything_ about you says you’re afraid of becoming who you really are. Time’s changed since then.” Tony harrumphs and pushes his fries away. Pepper shakes her head, “I haven’t forgotten. I know how much this used to hurt.”

 

“I remember your folks came over to mine with pitchforks and torches.”

 

“It’s not a good reason to disown a son. Nothing is.”

 

“Don’t forget school. Fun times.”

 

“Tony…”

 

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. That’s pathetic. I’m not… no. I’m way past that –”

 

He’s way past the fact that he’d crawled into the closet and cried and prayed himself to sleep – that when he woke up the next morning, he’d like girls again. Nobody would point and scream “Faggot!” if they caught him looking at Phil Coulson half a millisecond too long. He’s lucky he’s not the campy sort. Those tend to end up on the bathroom floor bleeding from the wrist.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with loving another person.”

 

“Uh, hold your horses. We don’t – we’re not tweens, Pep. This love at first sight is bull.”

 

“You don’t…?”

 

“I don’t want him gone. But I don’t want _you_ gone, either. Or Rhodey. I’m comfortable, just… being. I don’t want to ruin this.”

 

What if there can be something more?

 

Repressing this side of him has become so ingrained in his very core, it’s who he is now. Sometimes he cuts it looser, lets Steve in a little and just enjoys living the moment. But even that doesn’t last.

 

Pepper sighs, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself? You deserve to be happy.”

 

“I am happy.”

 

He’s happy when Steve smiles, comforted when he’s around. He doesn’t realise when it happens, it’s a gradual thing – like the tide by the beach. The water is miles back by the horizon, and in a heartbeat the bubbly waves are beating the shore.

 

“He deserves someone better.”

 

“Sure. Keep making up excuses.”

 

Is he letting a stigma of twenty years old to continue haunting him so far into the future?

 

“Maybe it’s time to stop fighting it, Tony.”


	35. Chapter 35

“Oh, this one is interesting.”

 

Tony's reclining on Steve’s couch, his feet propped up on the armrest, his head on some throw pillows. Steve is sitting cross-legged on the floor, pieces of stainless steel arms, legs and a torso littering the coffee table.

 

“It’s from… an anonymous reader. But says here she’s doing her PhD.” Tony clears his throat. “Domination and submission isn’t always about ropes and chains. I’m in one such relationship, and I cannot get out. I just show up for work. Where I am, my adviser holds near absolute power over us. I spoke to fellow postgrads from other universities. Some as far as from Hong Kong. It’s the same everywhere.”

 

Tony lifts his eyes a fraction off the letter he’s reading.

 

“You think this is true?”

 

Steve is twisting a metal stub with his tweezers.

 

“Earth to Steve?”

 

“I don’t know. Never gone as far as doing a PhD. Go on.”

 

Tony tuts and re-scans the sentences. “My adviser is a micromanager who’s impossible to please, and he takes pleasure in belittling members of the lab. Those who can leave, leave. Those who can’t, endure. I come here with an ambition. I want to work my way up to a tenure position. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, but that is what I want. Well, _was_ what I wanted.

 

“Is this how we’re treating the brightest of our generation now?”

 

Steve is fixing a head onto its torso. “Sounds like a case for our investigative journalist.”

 

“She has two more months to go anyway. And uh, says here… that she’s given up hope for the academia, for more than one reasons, and has secured a position at a company doing… next gen sequencing. Good for her.”

 

Steve brushes away a stack of fan mails as he searches for the model’s boot. “You’re enjoying this too much, Tony,” he comments wryly. “Don’t you have a case to work on already? It’s been a week since your promotion.”

 

“It’s not a promotion, just a job switch. And the bosses wanted me to take over some unfinished cases. I’d spent a week going through old documents. Just presented my findings yesterday. And we came to the same conclusion, we’ll have to start from scratch.”

 

Tony takes the fully assembled stainless steel model and balances it on his palm. He tests the limbs, realises belatedly that they don’t have rotator joints, and hopes the scratches he leaves behinds will go unnoticed. Steve leans back against the foot of the armchair and watches.

 

He’s doing that again. The serene smile on his lips, like everything is right with the world.  

 

Why is Tony here in the first place? Indeed. Tony has no plans for the Saturday, as it were. The first person he thought of calling was Steve, but somehow the number he dialled was Rhodey’s, who didn’t pick up the phone.  _Then_ only did he call Steve.

 

“I was going to do some shopping before lunch,” Steve starts sweeping stray metal bits into the box. “Want to come along?”

 

* * *

 

“When you said ‘shopping’,” Tony wrangles Steve closer to his side by the arms, and hisses into his ears, “I was thinking a new pair of socks. _What_ is this place?”

 

Steve laughs lightly, but doesn’t push Tony away. He navigates them past aisle and aisle of things that make Tony’s jaws drop lower and lower.

 

The exterior of the establishment is bland. The wall is painted in the darkest brown hue available – dark enough that it doesn’t yet venture into black – accentuated with wooden panels. The company's name is fixed over the entrance, in Arial fonts, all caps: N & N.

 

But wow, does the general air of up-tightness take a complete turn after the short trip down the stairs.

 

The basement level is where everything… goes down. To his right, there’s a display of _cock rings_  in various colours and designs – some spiky, some plain and leathery. To Steve’s left, an arsenal of whips and body harness decorate the far wall. They are soon turning a corner – there’s a bargain bin of classic plastic dildos here – when Steve reels Tony in by his elbow and pushes him up against the wall.

 

Tony’s nose to nose with Steve, encaged in arms barricading his personal space.

 

“Permission?”

 

Frankly, he’s more curious than excited. He nods.

 

“I need to hear you, Tony.”

 

“… Yes.”

 

“Don’t leave my side.”

 

Steve eases off him and makes a bee line for the counter. Tony follows, and now that he’s gotten over the sheer audacity of the displays, he realises that aside from Steve and himself, and two more staff carting boxes away as they check their clipboards, there is nobody else around. In fact, Tony recalls walking past a signboard that says “Authorised personnel only” – but Steve pushed past the door anyway, so what else can Tony say about it?

 

“Steve Rogers.”

 

Ah, yes. There’s that woman manning the counter, too. Her bright red lipstick stands out in the brown light.

 

“Maria,” Steve greets.

 

“Your orders are ready. I’ve personally seen to it.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Tony expects her to scuttle away and get whatever Steve’s ordered, but she lingers, and she's eyeing Steve with enough intensity to break glass. Then all her staidness crumble and she lunges for Steve, her arms over his shoulders. She's hugging him like everything depended on it. Fierce enough to crack bones. She doesn’t seem to care that the rounded edge of the marble top is pressing into her stomach.

 

“I didn’t expect you to come back so soon. Or at all. Are you – how are you, Steve?”

 

“Four years away does make a difference.”

 

“Is it enough?”

 

“I get by.”

 

When Maria reallocates her attention to Tony, she doesn’t afford him the same geniality and warmth. In fact, ambient temperature seems to drop a degree or two. Her eyes are shrewd, and Tony decides to be a gentleman. He offers her his hand, and smirks.

 

“Tony.”

 

She shakes it, but her lips curl.

 

“I’ll go get your stuff.”

 

“Actually,” Steve points to an unmarked door to the right. “Can we also have a private room?”

 

Maria looks pointedly at Steve, and at Tony, and _simpers_ … and something tells Tony he’s probably not going to like where this is going at all.


	36. Chapter 36

Nobody needs Mensa-grade IQ to guess what’s behind the door.

 

Maria has two other things to hand over to Steve. A remarkably boring bronze key presumably for the chamber of secret, and a box of appreciable size – which she loads into Tony’s arm. He doesn’t know how he’s suddenly the go-to fellow for manual labour, but before he can let her have a piece of his mind, Steve is already heading for the door.

 

Oh, maybe one _does_ need to have Mensa-grade IQ after all.

 

“Put the box on the table.”

 

It’s… a seminar room. Comes with a white board – is that last month’s income statement? – mounted on the north wall and a sturdy wooden table with some chairs neatly arranged around it. Where’s the Iron Maiden? Not even a fireplace poker? Can’t really be a sex torture dungeon without one, can it?

 

Steve motions for Tony to pull out a seat. “You look fairly unimpressed.”

 

“I got to say, this exceeds expectation in all ways imaginable.” For the first time in a long while, Tony has _zilch_ going through his mind. He shoves the box to the left to clear his view of Steve sitting opposite him. “OK. What’s going on? You got your stuff,” he points at them. “Why are we still here?”

 

Then, the door swings open. It’s Maria again, a black clipboard in her grasp.

 

Still every bit as unpleasant, though.

 

“This is the Sub you’re scening with?”

 

“We… haven’t spoken about that. That’s why we’re here.”

 

“I can smell _amateur_ on him. I can help – recommend other candidates. There are a few who’ll enjoy working with you. Somebody with more experience. You can’t seriously be considering _this_ one.”

 

“Lady, I’m still here, you know.”

 

“Maria, I appreciate your concern.” Steve rises, and he towers over her. He braces her by her arms, appreciative and firm, as was his voice. “But this is really between Tony and me.”

 

Only, Tony feels like he shouldn’t even be here.

 

Steve and Maria then speak quietly amongst themselves – between old friends – and he has to make conscious effort to  _not_ process the words. Do they know French? Or Klingon? Because either they start speaking in a language he doesn’t understand, or he’s sticking his fingers into his ears and hum Bohemian Rhapsody. 

 

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

 

Oh, she’s got balls, he has to give it to her.

 

When she exits, there’s an additional _click_ at the door. He should be concerned about that, he really should – it’s not _normal_ to lock other people in rooms without their permission, right? Even in a sex torture dungeon a la seminar room.

 

“I have a proposition for you.”

 

Tony’s attention snaps back to Steve, who’s interlaced his fingers atop the table and looks like he’s ready for a business pitch.

 

“All right. Let’s hear it.”

 

“Maria Hill is the owner of N & N. Her business partners are stationed elsewhere, in store branches across the States, actually. We’re in the headquarters. The warehouse. Whatever you see outside, those are their primary line of products."

 

If going by the train of zeroes on the white board, this is one thriving business, indeed.

 

“She’s also the Dungeon Monitor. She maintains the… playhouse. Or club, if you will. More importantly,” Steve repositions the clipboard so it faces Tony, and slides it across the table. “I think, this may help with your book writing process.”

 

There’s quite a few documents held together by the bulldog clip. The topmost page is an advertisement – the body of a man in a cage of rope, suspended from the ceiling against a background of steel scaffolding.

 

“Table top Dungeons and Dragons, right? She’s the DM, and we’re RPG players.” Tony flips to the next page. Please let this be an insane joke. “Pass. I min max my characters most of the time. You’ll hate me for that.”

 

“I’m not forcing you to participate. I’m just letting you know that there’s such a thing going on down here.”

 

The underlying pages are terms and conditions – the same wall of text on software installations that he scrolls down with the sole intention of checking “I Understood” and “I Accept”.

 

“Can’t I just watch?”

 

“Entry is only granted to active participants. So either we go as partners, or we forget I ever mentioned this.”

 

This is real.

 

Says here under “History” that the very first session was held way back in the 1998. It’s become an annual event ever since and turnout’s been rising steadily, from just a couple of dozens to over 150 by 2005. Starting from 2013, the event has also seen participation of volunteer first aiders, trained paramedics with an ambulance on stand-by, and security level significantly raised. The motto “Safe, Sane and Consensual” is passionately embraced and enforced. Perhaps, the vast improvement on the organising part is what drew in the largest crowd recorded last year – 208.

 

Tony flips to the next page. “Is a congregation this big even legal?”

 

“They have the right permits.”

 

He almost forgot that Maria has a cop buddy here as an adviser.

 

“Why haven’t I heard of this? 200 men sexing each other up has got to leak out somewhere. A photo or two, maybe? Gossips, at the very least.”

 

“Those people were carefully screened and selected. Most were here by referrals. Long-time customers. Friends. The community has pretty much been maintained this way. Its easier to control who comes in, who leaves.”

 

Tony’s sold. There’re already so many questions on his mind. Answers he can get by scuba diving about the reefs of fetishes.

 

“I want to go.”

 

“All right,” Steve retrieves the clipboard. “Next, we have to choose our scene. Again, no blood oaths, no contracts. If you change your mind, tell me.”

 

Steve goes to very last page. He gives it a once over. “Oh… we’re screwed…”

 

Seriously. Why do people around here keep talking like he’s not _present_?

 

“Good news is, we’re still in time for the registration. But, there're only two choices left, so… take your pick.”

 

“My pick of _what_?”    

 

“Our scene. Our _performance_. The easier ones are all taken. We’re left with either _nyotaimori_ or, uh… ring tossing.”

 

“… I cannot even begin to process what you just said. English, Steve, come on.”

 

“Look here.”

 

It comes with _picture manuals_. Why won’t Steve let him see those first – oh Lordy.

 

Picture one has a naked guy with freaking sushi arranged on him. Picture two is no better – a man tethered to an A-frame, with glow-in-the-dark vibrator rings around his erection.

 

… Gun. Mouth. Now.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been amazing with the votes. 
> 
> Your wish is my command, Masters and Mistresses...

“With that settled,” Steve uncaps his pen, “we have some forms to fill up.”

 

Of _course_ there will be more paperwork, was he expecting something different? And his stomach concurs by choosing that exact moment to rumble like a tractor.

 

“… Or maybe we’ll do that another time. But we need to at least pre-empt the organisers. What do you feel comfortable doing?”

 

This is definitely above his paygrade.

 

“You’re the boss.”

 

Steve huffs and taps his pen impatiently on the table. He seems to have given this much thought, which is fantastic, because Tony has given none.

 

“Look, piece of cake, right? Either way, I just keep still and do absolutely nothing.”

 

“… That’s the thing. You _can’t_ keep still.”

 

“I have a feeling you don’t mean that as a compliment.”

 

“You have a personality bordering hyperactive, Tony.”

 

“Be that as it may,” No need to be nasty, now. He’s well aware of his laundry list of character flaws. “I’m sure as my Dom, this is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me.”

 

“This is going to hurt you. Period.”

 

“I’m not made of glass. I can take some… uh, disciplining. That the lingo you use around here?”

 

The day this is going down will be an awfully _long_ one.

 

“If you’re letting me choose, we’re going for the sushi.”

 

“Either is fine.”

 

Good talk. This is getting increasingly uncomfortable by the minute. Tony gets to his feet and gives a phoney grin, and marches to the door as fast as he can short of Usain Bolting his ass out of N & N.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Uh, lunch? I’m starving.”

 

“We’re not done yet.”

 

Tony’s already empty stomach shrivels at that. He lets go of the door knob but loiters by it, until Steve waves for him to come closer. 

 

“Open the box. Lay every item out on the table.”

 

Steve hasn’t forbade him from say, giving a stink eye or unboxing whatever it is with as much bustles and verbal protests, has he? Doing exactly all that, Tony finally obliges and oh… ho ho ho…

 

First one out of the box is a black rubber ring the diameter of a ping pong ball. Steve actually snatches that away and _chucks it_ into the bin. Now, he’s not really all that curious about what that thingamajick actually does, but it looks like a perfectly good piece of rubber. There’s a handful of bolts in his car engine with worn down threads. That rubber ring will probably fix ‘em right up.

 

“No, we’re not using that.”

 

Steve’s caught him staring at the bin too long.

 

“Looks brand new. What a waste.”

 

“The risk is not worth it.”

 

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

 

“Penectomy. Penile removal surgery.”

 

Nope, not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

 

Next is a roll of thin, nylon strings. A pair of scissors. A… thingy… that he can already imagine what it does and where it goes. He looks at Steve, somewhat aghast as he dangles _it_ between his thumb and forefinger like a pincer.

 

“Is this what I think it is?”

 

“Probably,” Steve shrugs.

 

It’s strappy, almost entirely made out of flexible rubber, and comes with a wireless remote control. Looks like it’s designed to wrap nicely around a cock. That’s pretty wild, but it pales in comparison to the subsequent, bulkier items he’s pulling out in rapid succession. A set of hand cuffs, dog collars, a _crop,_ a flogger…

 

“You’re… not really going to use all of them now, are you?” A whip - _an actual whip_ \- is the last he extracts from the box.

 

“In due time. Come here.”

 

Tony goes to stand beside Steve. This all feels a bit too sudden, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wrap his head around this concept – _who the hell_ would _enjoy_ being _beaten up_? Sex and BDSM is one thing, physical torture is really another. It's hypocritical of him to say that this is happening out of the blue - he's informed of the connotations behind "S" and "M" - but actually seeing the gears with his own eyes?  

 

“Take off your pants.”

 

“Steve, can I… uh, stop. Safeword. That.” The bottom of Steve's chair scrapes on the floor. Tony backs away into the table. “I swear to God I mean it.”

 

“I know.” Slowly, Steve takes him by the arms. “You want to stop, we stop.”

 

Still, Tony leans further away when something rolls off the table top and clatters on the floor.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Actually…” All he can think about is the array of equipment he’s currently turned his back against and the unpleasant sensations associated with them. “Good question.”

 

“It’s the kit, isn’t it? Does it disturb you?”

 

“The what is disturbing me?”

 

“The kit. The things on the table.”

 

“I’ll be honest, Steve.” He can foresee how this is going to turn out. _I like vanilla! Screw all the fetishes. You guys are a bunch of weirdos._ “Pain isn’t… I’m not a masochist.” He checks Steve’s face for signs of derision, only to find rapt attention instead. “I know what I’m signing up for, I do. I may not be OK with every aspect of it –”

 

“Then everything stops. I’ll stop.” Steve is starting to look confused. “Is there something I don’t know about? Have I hurt you?”

 

“No...” It’s nobody’s fault. Oh, this is ridiculous. He’s not wussing out now. “No. You’ve been a good friend, a fantastic Dom. And I’ve been lucky. I’m saying, I _need_ to do this. I don’t want to lie. I’m not enthusiastic about it – being an active participant for the show, I mean – especially if it involves,” he involuntarily glances at the table top again, “pain. It’s a natural aversion. But I’ll regret the missed opportunity if I don’t do this.”

 

Steve considers the word. He’s cleared a marginal gap between them, and Tony breathes easier.

 

“I’ve been a terrible Sub,” he adds offhandedly. “I’ve never considered your opinions. Frankly, it’s never occurred to me. I’ve been selfish, and for that I’m sorry.” He can’t go alone. He needs Steve, but that’s as good as forcing Steve to force _him_ into doing something he doesn’t actually want to do. It’s messy and twisted in every way. His head hurts just thinking about it. “So, knowing all these, will you still take me there?”

 

“I know what pleases you.”

 

And how does the gear get changed so quickly?

 

“If I tell you, I will have you _beg_ for release before the end, will you want to come with me?”

 

Steve closes the distance. His voice drops to mere whispers, and Tony barely hears him at all, “I’ll do as you say. No pain. Let me show you another way.” Fingers thread through the hair on the back of Tony’s head. “Permission?”

 

Then he’s suddenly looking up at the ceiling, his throat bared, his breath stuttering.

 

“Yes.”


	38. Chapter 38

Then it’s a blur of dark grey Tony’s seeing – his shirt – as Steve has pulled it over his head. He raises his arms to ease its removal – do _not_ destroy his T-shirt, he has no spares with him – and when he’s all topless with hair somewhat dishevelled, Steve picks up the nylon strings.

 

“I need you to stay still,” he says, and he loops the almost translucent thread around Tony’s neck. “I’ll be using the scissors, so no sudden movements.”

 

Steve works quickly, and there’s the occasional snips at places immediately outside of Tony’s line of sight. Sometimes the blunt edge of the blade dips into his flesh, and the coolness of metal stings. He’s long given up trying to keep track of the many loops and slips and knots that’re criss-crossing on his torso, but a cursory glance to his chest tells him Steve has fashioned a five-pointed star right over his heart.

 

The end of it was knotted dead at the back of his neck.

 

“Put your shirt on.”

 

Tony bends to pick it up from the chair, and he freezes. The web of nylon is on him. _Really_ on him. Every shift and flex of his muscles, every tug on the strings – goosebumps rise like a rash on his skin, and he steels himself just enough to retrieve his shirt. Even when he’s clothed again, there’s no hiding. It’s _on_ him.

 

“Take off your pants.”

 

There’s not much leeway between the strings and his body, and he realises that they can _cut_ if he strains hard enough. Tony doesn’t bother to personally pull his jeans off – he _can’t_ – so to the best of his ability, he shrugs the tight denim to mid-thigh. And then he eyes the nylon roll warily – if that thing is going anywhere near his privates, he’s getting mentally ready for an accidental penile degloving. Maybe.

 

Steve rubs soothing circles over Tony’s hip bone. “I barely touched you at all.”

 

What?

 

Tony looks down to his lap, and is thoroughly annoyed to find his cock already at half-mass. He fidgets, and regrets it immediately when one of the knots has shifted that it starts scrapping against a nipple.

 

Steve next tosses the entire spool into the box and takes the blasted cock-cage-thing, and Tony wishes he’ll get the stupid nylon back. Because it’s made out of rubber, it’s not biting to the touch, neither is it rough nor irritating, but it does cling very nicely to the entirety of his shaft. He cannot bring himself to conjure even the vaguest mental imagery of how he’s presented right now. Then Steve lifts the remote control to eye level.

 

He flicks at a switch with his thumb, and Tony doubles over.

 

He doesn't expect it. The vibration hugging his cock is pretty intense. The way the rubber flops about when he prods at it, he thought the most it can do is squeeze him a little with the vigour of his 92-year-old Parkinson’s stricken neighbour.

 

“You’re not going to last very long like this. You’re especially sensitive today, Tony.”

 

“Shut _up_ …”

 

“Did you masturbate at all last week?”

 

“No. Can you stop asking about things like that? It’s embarrassing.”

 

As if Tony hasn’t said anything, Steve goes, “Why didn’t you?” But mercifully, another flick of the switch later and everything stops. Gulping deep pockets of air, Tony slumps into the table.

 

“… Work. Had to… start looking for a case – haven’t you been listening to what I said at all?”

 

“Every word.”

 

There’s an inexplicable chill in his spine and he can’t help but fold his arms around his stomach. His erection is still reacting enthusiastically to the constant reminder of Steve’s handmade body cage under his shirt.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Steve cups the tender expanse under Tony’s ear and gently nudges him to look up. There’s a mild strain in those features – even Tony is starting to feel flushed in his cheeks.

 

“Answer me.”

 

“… I’m fine.”

 

“I mean this to be our test drive.” Steve drops his hands to Tony’s waist. He zips the jeans up and refastens the belt buckle. “When you put your mind to something, nothing I say can ever dissuade you. So I figure, I’ll demonstrate it. We take this dip in the kiddy pool before we dive right into the Pacific.”

 

Steve takes a step back. Tony’s decently dressed again, though he feels hopelessly naked.

 

“If you get through this fine, we’ll begin training for the scene.”

 

Steve slips something cubic and plastic into his fist.

 

“Take this. Keep it in your hand at all time.”

 

It’s that dratted timer. There’s no way he’ll forget it. “Same rules?” Tony asks. He also thinks he’s losing his capability of stringing more than three words together to form a coherent sentence. It doesn’t help that his cock is twitching again; Steve has started the device on a dull but constant stream of vibration.

 

“Yes. But I’ve recalibrated it to beep every ten minutes instead. Can you handle that?”

 

No fucking way.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“All right. Let’s take a walk. I know a nice restaurant not so far from here.”   


	39. Chapter 39

In an ideal world, a world where Tony has a genie in a dirty lamp that takes a bit of buffing whenever he wants favours, three things will come true: the route and the restaurant itself will be vacant, there won’t be any more physical contacts with Steve because he’s kind of splitting at the seams _down there,_ and he can smack Steve over his head without repercussions.

 

But it’s not and he can’t, so fuck you, Aladdin, fuck you very much.

 

“I don’t know they’re doing construction works here.”

 

Because the restaurant is located up the hill, and because of Steve’s astute observation, all guests are forced to park their cars somewhere further and walk up the narrow stairway to heaven instead. Literally. Tony puts one foot up a step, and another, and another, his teeth grinding with vengeance as his cock rubs against the insides of rough denim. He stumbles where the ground is uneven, and he sees Steve _smirking_ as he catches him.

 

Tony deepens his glare.

 

The crowd is crazy. And murderously hungry. Many dash past them and they keep to their left – the slow lane – Tony wonders if the construction people are going to widen the stairs. There’s only enough space for two to walk abreast – one file to go up, another down – so Steve has no choice but to lead their torturous ascend.

 

Tony keeps his chin down most of the time – Steve is holding his hand, firm and certain, not unlike the giggling couple behind him. While the lady is buoyant and obviously enjoying the unprecedented cardio workout, Tony is…

 

He notices how Steve’s fingers intertwine with his. How their palms are flushed against each other’s. 

 

She laughs again and her voice carries over. And he tastes bitter on his tongue.

 

_Beep._

 

With his free hand he taps Steve on the back twice. Two out of five. Steve actually turns to look back and down at him.

 

Tony looks away.

 

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Steve’s mouth opening – probably going to ask if he’s freaking OK again – when a sizeable group of teenagers race past them. It’s instinctive - and Tony could slap himself silly over it - but he panics and wrenches his hand free from Steve.

 

They proceed upstairs without another word. Tony already misses the company.

 

“Table for two, please. I understand it’s not the best timing, but perhaps there’s a corner table available for us? My friend is feeling a bit unwell.”

 

Tony is mighty glad that they’ve finally reached the Pearly Gates. Cool air-conditioning hits his face like the morning mist and he shuffles to the podium. Steve is gesturing at him and the maître surveys him fleetingly. It’s not hard to think otherwise; there’s too much colour in his face and his breaths are coming up shallow – he blames the stairs, he blames Steve, the latter most of all.

 

“Follow me, gentlemen.”

 

At least something goes right for once. They are ushered to a corner table upstairs, isolated from everyone and everything else – save for the lavatory that’s to their immediate right, and the huge ass pot plant by Steve’s side. It’s terrible _feng shui_ , exactly what Tony needs more of.

 

_Beep._

 

“Two.”

 

Then the vibration intensifies. Tony glowers across the table, but eventually resorts to old-fashioned slouching and gripping the edge of his chair really tight. The nylon strings under his shirt has gone laxer between all the walking and stairs climbing. Again, small mercies, until Steve decides to be a dick again and ups the power as Tony tries to read the God damn menu.

 

“We’ll have the house specialty. Iced water will do, thank you.”

 

He lets Steve decide lunch because it’s “three point five” now and it’s jeopardising his literacy prowess.

 

“I’m afraid it’ll be an approximately thirty minute wait. Our oven and stove are down, so we’re a bit underpowered in the kitchen at peak hours.”

 

“It’s not a problem.”

 

First the construction in their compound, now the kitchen… honestly, if it's so inconvenient why won’t they shut the place down for a week or two until it's ready to run at full capacity?

 

Steve’s knee nudges his. Tony gives a silent “ _What?_ ”

 

“Let’s bargain. I’m going to turn this on to max,” Tony’s eyes widen in horror, “or, I turn it off, but you have to take… _it_ out of your jeans.”

 

Oh, just kill him already.

 

“ _Here? Now?”_

 

Tony jerks and his knee collides painfully with the table. Is this max power? He pulls in a shaky breath.

 

“Tick tock, Tony. Choose.”

 

“OK.” Screw this. “Turn that off.”

 

Their table comes with a flowing tablecloth. He wants to proclaim his eternal gratitude to this sheet of deep purple-dyed polyester that looks rather opaque under the lighting. He scoots closer to the table and unzips his jeans. His cock springs out eagerly from its confinement, cage and all, and he leans forward in his seat. It’s impolite to rest his elbows on the table at meals, but so is having his genitalia on parade in public.

 

And, oh God.

 

“Your drinks, gentlemen.”

 

The waiter is here and not-here in a blink of an eye, a blink that takes far too long and Tony holds his breath throughout. He studies the condensation on the jug of iced water with disinterest, mostly because he doesn’t want to give Steve the satisfaction. Jackass is probably thinking of a million other ways of making this weirder.

 

He holds the glass to his lips –  

 

“Masturbate.”

 

– and promptly spits water out like a cherub fountain.


	40. Chapter 40

Is that legal? That can’t be legal. Tony glances around nervously and almost knocks his spoon over the table top.

 

“Are you out of your _mind?”_ he manages to grit out. He beats a hasty retreat in his seat when somebody walk past them to use the bathroom. “People are watching!”

 

“Nobody is watching. Relax, you’ll be fine.”

 

“Look around you, Steve! It’s fucking lunch hour, there’s probably more people than the plates they have in the washer!” Another lady customer walks past them. She looks over them curiously, and Tony feels her gaze linger on him longer than necessary.

 

“If you keep drawing attention to yourself, people will start looking. So don’t.”

 

“I’m _not._ ”

 

“We’re here to have lunch,” Steve explains coolly. “You look like you’ve just been jumped in an alley.”

 

Tony scoffs darkly. That’s not too far off from what he’s experiencing, for the matter.

 

“Listen. This is the tamest simulation I can think of before I tell Maria we’re committed for the show. Nobody’s going to hurt you, you’re safe.” Then, Steve sighs, “And I’m here. I won’t leave you unguarded. If you can’t handle this, how are you going to handle two hundred strangers watching your scene? And there won’t be clothes, pot plants or tablecloths to hide behind.”

 

Maybe he needs some – a _lot_ – of mental and emotional adjustments. Just because he’s game for the show doesn’t mean he’s necessarily up for it in a heartbeat. Or should he be? There’s a logic flaw in there somewhere.

 

“Tony? Look at me.”

 

Only then does he realise that Steve’s searching his face with worry.

 

“This isn’t a challenge. It’s fine if it’s too much. There’s nothing personal or shameful about it. If you continue, it’s because you _want_ to. Do you understand me?”

 

If he takes himself out of the equation… their food is still half an hour away, and now that Steve’s mentioned it nobody actually gives him a second of damn if he stops behaving like there’s a stick up his ass. Plus, his erection is still standing proud in his lap.

 

Steve himself is eyeing his cock with constrained interest. Tony feels something swirl in his core.

 

“It’s fine. I want it.”

 

He grips his shaft tightly. One deep inhale of air and an inward mantra of _fuck all,_ he works himself slowly. The rubber cage adds another layer of texture that frankly, neither enhances nor takes away from the pleasure, but taking it off is too much effort and he doesn’t think he can bring himself to stop. And for reasons unknown, even when people still move in and out of the bathroom before him, even when he look at them straight in the eye, none of them return the attention – and he finds himself pumping faster at the _openness_ of it all. He’s here, panting and actually _touching himself_ in broad daylight, if only someone bothers to stand and look over here from an angle, it’s over. It’ll be a night behind bars for public indecency.

 

The risks of getting caught, of getting _spied on_ excites him more. It’s crazy, he knows, it’s _unnatural,_ but it works. And he’s getting there.

 

_Beep!_

“Four…”

 

He knows Steve is watching him, but he just can’t tear his eyes away from the lunch crowd.

 

To his left, Steve stretches an arm for the pitcher, only to knock his fork off with his elbow. Tony feels it jangle near his shoe – it’s probably more convenient for him to pick it up for Steve – but he _can’t_ stop.

 

Steve ducks under the table – while he’s there, Tony imagines kicking the crap out of him because everything is still _his_ fault – and –

 

Tony moans sharply – _involuntarily_ , and he clamps a hand over his mouth – when a fucking _tongue_ skates over his balls. He yanks the tablecloth aside and sees Steve between his thighs, nursing his caged cock and scrotum. Steve grips his wrist and stills it, and Tony panics again. Will people notice Steve’s sudden disappearance? What if their waiter comes back?

 

Tony clenches at the lower half of his face until his front teeth are cutting into his lips. Steve is blowing him – God damn, he’s taking Tony all the way down, cage and all – and he feels himself leaking from the tip. But it’s not enough. The stupid rubber between his needs and Steve – get it off, _get it off._

It got off. Steve has tugged it off – harshly, and the sudden release of his restrain is doing something crazy to his cock. It’s pulsing and he can’t keep _quiet_ much longer –

 

He watches all of its length disappear inside Steve’s mouth. He watches the lips close around his head, the base, tongues _everywhere_ –

 

“Steve, Steve, _Steve –_ ”

 

Tony fists about Steve’s hair. He’s hurting Steve, he’s probably already unrooted a patch of hair from the scalp, and he needs Steve to _stop –_

Tony hunches sharply over the table. He’s bucking his hip not-so-inconspicuously into Steve under the table, emptying himself with so much vigour he starts _apologising_ under his breath – doesn’t know if Steve hears him, doesn’t care either –

 

His body is still heaving when Steve reclaims his seat next to him. Elsewhere, the crowd is minding their own business, and Tony is too spent to worry if anybody notices anything. And Steve. Steve has the freaking audacity to dab at his chin with paper napkin – the restaurant’s emblem over his reddened lips – and he proceeds to wrapping the rubber cage with it.

 

“That was fun,” Steve says before slipping the wad into his pocket.

 

Their house specialties arrive not so long after, and they speak of work and an old lady who was swindled out of her entire retirement savings. The walk back to N & N is uplifting, their shoulders brushing as they walk side by side. By the time Tony excuses himself to the bathroom with his scissors in tow – the web of strings under his shirt has got to go, he’s itching – he doesn’t even remember he'd ever doubted at all.


	41. Chapter 41

“Congratulations! Belatedly, but it’s your fault for _just_ remembering to tell me.”

 

“Thank you all the same.”

 

“Is this kismet or what? You’re legitly playing cop – without the badge, but still. Remember the time I hid your favourite pencil and you somehow _knew_ I kept it under your pillow?”

 

“The pen is mightier than the sword, Pep. Couple that with my inherent genius-level observatory skills, I’m golden!”

 

Pepper snickers on her side of the phone, and Tony’s heart warms.

 

“So.”

 

Between the bullshitting and bickering, Tony has always believed that the one with true genius-level observatory skills is none other than Pepper Potts.

 

“How are you and Steve?”

 

“We’re… doing swell. He’s busy with a couple of new cases. One involves an old lady and her retirement funds, I think.”

 

“Oh? So he’s an investigative reporter like you?”

 

“He’s a cop. The kind with the badge.” On Tony’s side of reality, he checks his queue ticket and sighs. He’s been waiting for his turn for the past half an hour. Don’t tell him they’ve run out of band aids again.

 

“That’s news.”

 

“Mm, does it matter what he does for a living?”

 

“No. Something tells me though you’re going to leverage on his access to crime reports, cold cases, what have you to your own advantage –”

 

“I take offense to that. Yep, you’ve offended me, Pepper. Do I look like the crooked sort, going through people’s private-and-confidential’s to further my own agenda?”

 

“You’re pretty… _flexible_ when it comes to getting things done.”

 

Tony does _not_ appreciate the dryness in her voice. He wrinkles his nose but says nothing to defend himself. Happily, his number _finally_ got called and he sets ahead to the treatment room.

 

“This is all fine and dandy, but I got to go. My warmest regards to your fiancé. I’ll call you soon?”

 

“All right, Tony. Take care of yourself.”

 

“Don’t I always?”

 

Pepper doesn’t hang up quick enough, so Tony gets a blast of her scoff and imaginary eye roll. He gives the nurse his brightest megawatt grin and sits where she’s pointing at.

 

His phone rings again.

 

“Uh, d’you mind if I –” Tony’s mood sours as she conjures from nowhere a set of needles, syringes, cotton swabs and a bottle with clear fluid in it. “– answer my phone?” Seriously, where’s the band aid?

 

“No problem, go ahead.”

 

Tony lets her do his sleeve up to the shoulder and he swipes across the screen. “Yeah?”

 

“Tony? It’s Steve.”

 

“Yeah –” He grimaces when the nurse practically douses his bicep in alcohol. Please don’t tell him she’s new, either. “How are you doing?”

 

“We’re a bit swamped lately, but things are fine. Are you still working?”

 

“Nope, I’m at the clinic.” Doesn’t this conversation sound familiar? “Again.”

 

“What is it this time?”

 

“So turns out, I’m negative for everything. HIV, Hep B and C negative. Antigen and antibody.”

 

The nurse’s rubber gloved hand is on him again. Tony turns and sees the pointy end of the needle glint. “Whoa – I mean, so they ask me if I wanted to get vaccinated for the hepatitis. Since they’re having a _discount_ for Hep B, I thought why no – OW!”

 

“Deep breath, Mr Stark.”

 

“You’re supposed to tell your patients that _before_ you stab them.”

 

“Tony, be nice.”

 

And they both _laughed_ , one nervously – _please_ don’t laugh when the needle is an inch deep in his arm! – one light and easy over the earpiece. It’s official. It’s let’s-gang-up-on-Tony-Wednesday. He must’ve missed the memo.

 

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

 

“Yes, about that. I think we have some downtime the next couple of days.”

 

“Oh? Old lady got her money back?”

 

“… No. I think it’s gone for good. Most of it, anyway. With luck, we get to recover what’s left and return them to her. Enough about that. Do you have plans for the night?”

 

Tony unrolls his sleeve and mouths a thank you to the nurse. “No. Why?”

 

“Want to come over for dinner?”

 

“Dinner? Now?” People don’t normally take dinner when the sun is still blazing hot in the sky – oh, look at that. “God, sorry. This thing has been taking forever. Is it that late already?”

 

“Depends on what seven o’clock means to you.”

 

“So, your place? Are you cooking?” Tony misses Steve’s cooking. “Love me some dumplings.”

 

“I’m… not…” Naturally, just when the discussion is getting somewhere, distractions ensue. There’s muffled conversations on Steve's side as Tony ambles down the darkened walkway. The streets were packed when he first arrived. Now? Not a single shadow in sight. Somewhere over the rainbow, he spots his car, lonely without company.

 

“Tony, I’m so sorry. Something came up –”

 

“No problem. We can catch up another time.”

 

“No, I mean, you can come over first. I’ll need to stay back a bit, so…” Then Steve goes off prattling away in the distance. He imagines Steve angling the mouthpiece away from his face – a gesture of social thoughtfulness on his part, of course, but Tony manages to hear something like “quote me on that, it’s our jurisdiction, too”. Sounds like Steve has gotten himself trapped in some bureaucratic crossfire – will be nice if he lets Tony in on some of these occupational spectacle. To satisfy his innocent curiosity, of course. It’s most definitely not because they might be potential leads for his own case, no Sir, not at all.

 

Tony kicks an empty can into a nearby upended bin.

 

“I’m so sorry, Tony. It’s rude, I know –”

 

“You’re doing our country a great service, Lieutenant. Won’t hear me complaining about your work.”

 

Tony digs into his pocket for his car keys.

 

“Thank you.” There's a hint of affection there. “To unlock the main gate, dial 3490 into the security keypad. The key to the door is under the flowerpot, the one closest to the door.”

 

“Dial 3490, key under flowerpot closest to the door.”

 

“Yes. Also, I’m thinking maybe it’s time for you to earn your dinner.”

 

Tony halts in his step. It’s not so much about the literal meaning of what was just said, but the way the intonation of every single syllable has fallen so deep it’s guttural, almost dangerous.

 

“Go to the fridge, help yourself to some apples. Shower. There’s a stack of fresh laundry on the couch, you should find a towel in there.” And Tony presses his phone harder to his ears, he feels the side of his skull cave in. “Then, wait for me. In my bed. I want you naked, hard and wet. Wanting. If I see you flag when I get home, there’ll be consequences.”

 

Tony is very tempted to excavate earwax from his ears. Did Steve just say all those things? Tony feels his hair go out in flames.

 

“Answer me.”

 

“OK.” There’s probably a hundred different ways of acknowledging Steve without sounding lame.

 

“I’ll see you soon, Tony.”

 

Steve hangs up before he can even blink.

 

And before he knows it, thick arms close under his chin, pressing into his windpipe as a gunny sack that smells of onion and garlic drops over his head. Tony starts to yell – there are hands all over him, _frisking_ him – and he makes out fast-moving shadows through the threads.

 

Then he’s suddenly on his knees, his air stolen as knuckles plunge squarely into his stomach.   


	42. Chapter 42

Tony knows he’s hounded by more than one. How many exactly he can’t say for sure, but they got him surrounded. Someone creeps up from behind and hooks their arms under his armpits. He’s forced to straighten up – open – and pummels in every shape and size rain on him. He tanks every single one.

 

 _Fear_ , undiluted and mounting, rises above all else.

 

“Lift him up!”

 

He’s down. He’s not going to fight back. Don’t –

 

“Mr Stark.”

 

He tastes copper as someone backhands him across his face. He’s not seeing _anything_. It’s the inky night, or the gunny sack. He shudders, and the arms holding him up tighten about him.

 

“Love from Obadiah Stane. Remember him? He does you. You’ve become quite an inconvenience.”

 

There’s a rustle of clothes as the talking man crouches before Tony. Grappling a handful of his collar, the man snarls, “Lieutenant Rogers can’t always be here for you, can he? Which reminds me, Mr Stane brings you a gift.”

 

Another slap hits Tony across his face. But it’s not cruel fingers that he feels through the threads – papers, many pages of them – and he’s released. He crumbles to the grungy tarmac and finally, _finally_ is granted respite as he folds shakily into himself. 

 

“You think you know _him_ well. Eyes wide open, Stark.”

 

Tony stays down even when he hears no more footsteps crunching on gravel, or voices. All is still, and out of necessity more than nerve, he pulls the sack free over his head. He gulps in fresh air and props himself up on one elbow. He thinks he’s alone now, he _thinks,_ because there’s a valley of blackness in his vision and a pounding _boom boom boom_ in his ears.

 

He shifts around and locates whatever his attackers had left him. An envelope. Sealed. Plain and inconspicuous. It has some weight to it as he picks it – and himself – up. His cell phone is all scattered in pieces. The plastic case by his feet and the lithium battery not so far away. The screen is cracked in two places. He takes them with him too, and he traipses to his car.

 

“Steve…”

 

He drops into the driver seat and slams the lock shut, and next slams his forehead onto the steering wheel. He doesn’t remember how he’s assembled his phone – which still works, what are the odds – and he speed dials Steve.

 

“Please…”

 

He can’t drive. Not like this. He can’t step on the pedals without his knees giving out.

 

But Steve doesn't pick up. And he doesn’t know what to do. Yet, in fifteen minutes – a dazzling feat – he somehow finds himself parked by the monsoon drain near Steve’s apartment. It’s all muscle memory by now, and he’s lucky it is.

 

Steve’s not back yet. The lights are still out.

 

No matter. He clambers off his seat – the envelope tucked in his waistband, his car keys jingling in his pocket – and dials 3490 on the security keypad. That’s about as good as it gets. He tips the flowerpot to its side when he searches it for the key to Steve's unit. He leaves his shoes a haphazard mess by the door because he can’t bend down to put them away nicely. Books topple off the shelf where he leans heavily against as his vision whites out.

 

He’s starting to feel the aftermath of the assault. It comes in waves, indistinguishable at first, unforgiving at last.

 

Tony doesn’t make it to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

The body is a wonderful thing. Take the skin, for example. Just the skin. All five layers of it. It detects the slightest of touch, of heat, of pressure. Ever tried reading Braille? It’s amazing. Mere dots embossed in deliberate constellations. Deciphering it takes only a swipe of the finger. It’s sensitive. Dynamically regulated. Like when Steve showers the most vulnerable spots with open-mouthed kisses, barely there caresses, he feels them all. Teases at the nape of his neck goes straight down to his groin.

 

Pleasure insurmountable. And when it _hurts_ …

 

“Tony?”

 

Déjà vu. Like, no-nonsense-straight-up déjà vu. He’s on the left side of a bed – Steve’s, because the sheets feel too clean, the pillows don’t smell the same – and when he creaks an eye open, he sees the photo of a younger Steve and the man with the red star tattoo.

 

“Take it easy.”

 

Steve is leaning over him, and he thinks Steve looks like shit. Unshaven, gaunt, bags under his eyes. One night can do so much to a man.

 

“Do you remember where you are?”

 

Barely, but yes. “Your place,” Tony replies, his voice coarse. “I… don’t think I locked my car.” Of all the things he remembers…

 

“Don’t worry, I got you covered.”

 

Tony takes stock of his post- _incident_ self. His chest stretches tightly when he tries to sit up. No bandages, as far as he can tell. No sharp pains, no overt signs of bleeding. All his teeth are accounted for. Breathing in too deeply gives him trouble, but nothing he can’t deal with.

 

Steve on the other hand looks like he’s been run over by a truck himself.

 

“Unless you’re actually feeling constipated,” Tony wets his lips stiffly, “stop looking at me like that.”

 

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

 

“Oh God, no. No hospitals. No doctors. What time is it?”

 

“Dawn.” Tony sees hues of orange flit through the window. He sinks gratefully into the mattress again, until he sees the expression Steve is wearing. Distracted. Wistful, even. He follows Steve’s eyeline to the A4-sized envelope laying across his laps, the top flap opened.


	43. Chapter 43

There’s probably an eight-hour gap between the assault and now, and Tony is still trying to wrap his head about the mess, but nothing compares to the struggles that are so blatantly displayed on Steve’s face. It’s a jumble of _everything_ , like he has a thousand and one questions on cue cards, but can’t seem to decide which one to show first.

 

But that’s all right. Tony can do some hazarding. “You wanna know who beat the shit out of me.” Steve stays quiet. Bingo? “The truth is, I don’t know. They put a bag over my head and took me to church. More than one, definitely. But only one guy spoke, so believe me, I have no clue. No, wait. I do.”

 

Steve perks up a bit at that.

 

“I, uh…” Come to think of it, will the stuff he says be used against him? Is Steve reading him his Miranda Rights? “I might’ve heard the wrong thing, but I think he said, ‘love from Obadiah Stane’.”

 

And Steve cradles his head like the burden of a thousand tonne is weighing down on him.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“No. But you have your evidence, don’t you?” Steve’s blue eyes are back on him. Cold. “That little souvenir of theirs. It’s got my fingerprints, _your_ fingerprints, but I haven’t opened it. Whatever’s inside _might_ have theirs, too. Run them through your lab. There must be something you can use.”

 

Tony practically _bled_ for that envelope. It’s obvious it’s been opened and likely searched – must be Steve’s handiwork – but even the breach in privacy fails to provoke the slightest of irritation. He’s _that_ tired.

 

Steve’s knuckles whiten over his knees. “Were you investigating me?”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Maybe it’s the concussion talking. Steve’s not making sense.

 

“Where did you get this from?”

 

Tony glances at the envelope sitting on Steve’s thighs. “Give me that.”

 

“ _Please,_ Tony,” Steve's voice wavers in the space between them. Something deep inside Tony _shrivels_. There’s something wrong, _so_ wrong right now, but he doesn’t know what.

 

“Where did you get this from?”

 

“ _They_ gave it to me. Said it’s from Stane.” Might have slapped him around with it, too. “I haven’t looked inside it – what’s going on, Steve?”

 

“I’ll get you some water.”

 

Steve’s gone before Tony can even protest – he’s so confused, definitely a concussion somewhere – but hey, Steve’s left the envelope on the bed just within striking reach. How thoughtful.

 

With as much enthusiasm as his bruised ribs allow him to exude, he turns it upside down and pours out the content over his legs. It's photographs after photographs – one even flies off the perimeter of the bed, but Tony doesn’t care about that. Because what’s sprawled in his lap, what he’s _seeing_ –

 

Top of the pile is Steve - a _very sexy_ Steve in a wet T - looking at him, or the camera, rather. Nothing in particular stands out. The hair might be slightly longer at the nape and by the ears. The plain, white shirt he's wearing is probably a size too small, but eh, who's complaining. The only thing weird about this is that Tony thought shooting this would've embarrassed Lieutenant Goody-Two-Shoe to no end.

 

The next one is of Steve sleeping. Creepy – who took these photos anyway? Steve’s in bed lying on his stomach, _very likely_ to be naked – Tony sees butt in between the crumpled sheets – but his arms are drawn above his head and chained to the headboard.

 

The third one - a modest 3R-sized - hits Tony about as hard as the wallop he tanked in the gut yesterday. Steve is on his knees again – only in his boxer shorts – _blowing_ someone off camera. Traces of semen dribble down his chin. Obvious tear tracks pave through his cheeks.

 

Next. Steve naked on the cement floor and he’s almost folded in half at the waist, taking an actual cock in his ass. _He’s still blowing a guy_. And there are people around them. People with no names or faces to put on, all standing over Steve, masturbating.

 

Steve leashed to a wall. His body is marked – sparsely, in welts of black and blue – his eyes blown in shock.

  

A curt tap on the nightstand – glass on wood – isn’t enough to tear Tony’s attention from the showcase of silent horror plastered on every frame of Steve’s face. Suddenly Tony’s _petrified_ , and this is somehow worse than being surrounded himself, defenseless, with a gunny sack over his head.

 

Steve’s fingers brush lightly across his temple.

 

He has to know. Has to make sure.

 

“Are these real?” Tony feels the vibrations in his throat, though the sound is distant. “Did this really happen?”

 

Steve bends down to pick up the one that flew off the bed.

 

“Tell me,” he urges, his hand suddenly tight around Steve’s. “Tell me this is some weirdass, _extreme_ kinkplay with – with your childhood buddies or something. Tell me this is – that you wanted it. That you were OK with it!”

 

“Let it go, Tony.”

 

What is that supposed to _mean?_

Something hardens within Tony. A resolution, maybe. He sweeps all the photos back into the envelope and peels the blanket off him.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“The police station. I’m reporting this.” He forces himself to get out of bed, and Steve wrangles him back by the elbow. 

 

“I said, let it go.”

 

“You hypocrite. You fucking _hypocrite_.” Adrenaline rush gives him the strength to stand his ground. It’s the only thing that’s holding all his pieces together. “When Stane was all over me, you made me report his ass to the police, and then he sends his thugs after me and now _this,”_ he waves the envelope madly in the air, “And you say _naw, we’re cool with this_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Get out of my way.”

 

“No.”

 

Steve’s going to need a lot more than “no” to keep him away from the door. He steps around all six feet two of Steve – so what, is Steve going to beat him up too? – and he’s suddenly flat on the floor, on a rug in a heap. His world is tilting and phasing in and out.

 

God, he really is useless like this.

 

Hugging the envelope close to his heart, he pushes himself up again, and grapples at the doorframe for support – it’s _pathetic_ – but his body won’t co-operate. Understandably, Steve keeps his distance, still rooted by the bed. Is he afraid? Of Tony? Yeah. Why shouldn’t he?

 

And Tony can’t fight it anymore. He starts to cry.


	44. Chapter 44

It’s only when tears start dripping off the edge of his nose and he has to goddam _sniffle_ to clear his airway that he turns his head away. Steve can’t know. He’s not letting Steve see him see this. He’s mentally reciting the same drivel people chant to themselves at funerals: he’s got to be strong, for both of them. He’s got to reassure Steve that everything’s OK. That no matter what, Steve can always count on him.

 

His heart pounds painfully against his sore ribs. Crying hurts.

 

He doesn’t understand how Steve is _OK_. Water-under-the-bridge-OK. He lets his forehead rest on the cool floorboard because like this, he gets to carve a little niche for himself in Steve’s bedroom. He’s a _wreck_ , while Steve looks like he’s just eaten a bad sandwich for lunch.

 

Maybe the photos are a hoax. Maybe it’s just Obadiah and his goons trying to fuck with his mind. Rhodey can do some pretty neat stuff with Photoshop. Paste a person’s face onto another’s body. He can’t go around making assumptions. Jumping the gun.

 

Tony eyes slide to a close as he forces his lungs to expand – his back stiffens, he tries to roll over to his side – but he can’t get air in. And Steve somehow magically sidles by him to half-cradle his upper body. He thanks the heavens, because that makes it so much easier for him to elbow Steve in the face as he leans forward to retch onto the floor. He’s really exceeded expectations this time. It’s like he’s somehow able to further tarnish the blackest of tar.

 

Steve’s large, warm hand runs up and down his back, and Tony curls tighter into himself.

 

“Breathe, Tony. You’ll be fine.” And then Steve is pulling him in, his back against Steve’s front, and he eases into the rhythmic rise and fall of Steve’s chest. “That’s it. Light and easy.”  

 

It takes much too long for the tears to stop running. By then, Tony is already cosying up against Steve on the cold, hard floor like it’s the comfiest place to be.

 

“When did it happen?” Tony croaks eventually. They can’t avoid the subject forever. Steve seems content to nuzzle his chin against the top of Tony’s head, and as the quiet stretches, Tony accepts that if Steve thinks the question is too prying, too out of place, he’ll stop. He has no right.

 

“Four years ago.”

 

Tony shifts in Steve’s arms. “Told anyone else yet?”

 

“No. Never see the need to.”

 

“Your cop job better pay you enough to cover a lifelong therapy bill.”

 

His hair flutters under Steve’s huff of breath. Unbelievable.  

 

“Why did you answer my e-mail?”

 

Steve hums, deep and slow. He presses his cheek against Tony’s temple. “What e-mail?”

 

“Me asking you to partner up for that four-week column. I was upfront about the whole shebang from the start. You know we’re going down this road. So why? Aren’t you afraid? You don’t even know me.”

 

More silence. Steve better think up a good answer to that. Tony swears if Steve says “sounds like a good idea at that time”… It’s black pots and kettles butting heads like idiots.

 

“I don’t know. I look at you and I see the same innocence I once had. Or – in your case – _ignorance_ is the more suitable word.” Steve adds wryly. “I feel like I’d already known a little bit of you. I told you I read your articles sometimes. I see an appreciation for truth and justice, a biting wit. Your pig-headedness and occasional arrogance. You needed a partner for your story, I wanted to help. It wasn’t that complicated.”

 

“I gotta hand it to you. If it were Rhodey here and now – not that I wish him, or anyone else for that matter to… to have to go through that –”

 

“I know.”

 

“– he would’ve torn me another one in case I don’t learn where _not_ to poke my nose at.” He doesn’t want to think about what _Pepper_ might do. “I don’t get you, Steve. Were you born with halos and wings? If you wanna howl at the moon or something, I won’t judge.”

 

Because Steve is far too collected for this shit.

 

“Your safety is the only thing that matters.”

 

“You keep saying that.” It’s petulant, it’s low, and he’ll be lying if he says he doesn’t find Steve’s whole Zen-approach to rape chilling. Is this denial? Repressed memories? They’re also obvious stay-away zones. No questions, no comments. No right.

 

So Tony sighs, “I’m sorry it happened.”

 

“Me too.”

 

What next, then? After all is said and done, evidence is still evidence, and it’s here with him wrapped up in a bow.

 

“We can still lodge a report.” He’s thinking fast. “I’ll report yesterday’s incident as a front. We remove the photographs. I tell the police they dropped the envelope, or I grabbed this off somebody when they were looking elsewhere. If they have access to the photos, they probably belong to the same pack. We can still nail them without dragging you back into the muck.”

 

Win-win.

 

“Nobody walks around with an empty envelope, Tony. You can’t manipulate the investigative force this way. If they put someone like Sam on your case, they’re going to shoot so many holes in your story a sieve can hold water better. I know their methods. Eventually, either you spill or face charges for disruption of justice.”

 

“Good cop, bad cop my ass till they get the truth out of me?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

There’s got to be a way. He just has to _think_.

 

“Tony, I need you to listen to me. Stop. Just let it go.”

 

“You know I can’t.”

 

“Yes, you can.” Steve wraps his arms fully around Tony’s chest. Steve’s every heartbeat is hypnotic. “These people are dangerous. Organised. Ubiquitous.” Steve’s chin digs into the crook of his shoulder. “ _I’m begging you._ Let it go.”

 

Steve’s so desperate to forget.

 

“OK.”

 

* * *

 

“Pepper, I need your help. Top priority.”

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“I got a bunch of photos with me. I want a programme that does digital clean-up. Even better if it’s linked up to open access maps, census reports, the whole nine. I want to study every damn pixel for clues. Please say you have something for me in your company’s catalogue.”


	45. Chapter 45

Two days become five. Five turns to eight. Eight days since Steve found Tony unconscious in his sitting room. Eight nights since the revelation. Tony texts Steve on and off, about inane stuff like “Watching the supermoon tonight?” and their chat often terminates by the eighth or so literal speech bubbles. Steve is back at the station, pulling all-nighters because the Feds are giving them pressure over something “P & C”, so that leaves Tony plenty of me time to do what he does best.

 

Snooping.

 

And good ol’ Pepper. She Fed-Exes him the software protection dongle – says it’s a free copy from the vendors and he can keep it after he’s done – which is why he’s here at home, hunched over the desk on a Saturday morning, elbow deep in signal manipulation.

 

But he first makes sure to put mosaic over Steve’s face the instant each photograph is successfully scanned.

 

It’s mindboggling how life plays out sometime. As mindboggling as that one time his boss attempted pep-talk during crunch times: _Time is like cleavage; you’ll always get some out no matter how you squeeze it._ Between the book writing – he hasn’t forgotten about this pet project of his – and Steve Rogers: A History, he still has to work his day job. The one that actually puts food on his table, gas in his car.

 

And then! There’s also the scening at N & N the end of this month.

 

Tony gives up abusing his mouse and rubs at his dry eyes. He hasn’t brought up the subject matter since, because… how can he? Lo and behold, Steve texted him again just as he was getting friendly with his duvet – that was six in the morning – asking to meet at the warehouse later this evening.

 

It’s only eleven in the morning now. His breath tastes metallic and he’s probably running on fumes.

 

Doesn’t mean he’s giving up.  

 

Which is how he finds himself peering into a CCTV camera after several minutes of ringing N & N’s doorbell. Incessantly. Maria has absolutely _refused_ to let him into the establishment if Steve isn’t with him – but it’s exactly for that reason he’s here at her doorstep three hours in advance. Luckily, he comes prepared. Plan B is him threatening to _kneel_ by the entrance until she opens the door.

 

She calls his bluff, so down he goes.

 

Now comfortably seated in bar stools in the basement – plastic dildos are still on discount, ladies and gentlemen! – Maria pushes a glass of water into his hand and drums her fingers over the polished counter.

 

“What is it? Getting cold feet? Thinking of pulling out of the event?”

 

“Maria,” he tests her name on his lips. She harrumphs, but goes back to writing furiously on her notepad. Maria it is, then. “Do you know what happened to Steve four years ago?”

 

Her pen jolts to a full stop.

 

Bullseye.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“You two go way back. I’m sure of it. I need to know, so please.”

 

“How did you know? What did he tell you?”

 

Well, some things are a bit difficult to explain properly with words. So Tony leans back and yanks his shirt up to his collar. His bruises are healing up nicely, but the deeper ones are still a noticeable shade of brown and yellow, and there are a few littering the expanse of his stomach.

 

It’s a good thing he decides to show them to Maria. She drops her charade of apathy and looks stricken by the injuries.

 

“They did this to you?”

 

“Yes. Though I’m not sure if we’re talking about the same gang of mofo here. I know what happened to Steve because they gave me photographs of – of whatever they did to Steve. After they rough me up a bit in the back alley. No,” he says hurriedly, when Maria cups her mouth with her hand. “No, I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

 

He lets his shirt down and folds his arms across his chest. He’s started the ball a-rolling. Maria’s turn now.

 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I have Steve’s best interest at heart. But if he trusts you…” She slips her notepad into one of the drawers. “What do you want to know?”

 

_Everything._

 

“What happened to Steve four years ago?”

 

“You said you’ve seen the photos. You know what went down.” There’s no need to specify details. But there’s got to be something else. The head and the tail of the story. “It was a milestone for N & N and the D/S community at large. Our fifth annual BDSM convention. Turnout was huge. Completely unexpected. Then things got a bit rowdy. We didn’t have the same level of security back then as we do now , and I was afraid things would go out of hand. I called Steve. Figured having a cop on stand-by would help.

 

“This… particular group – I don’t know how they got past the bouncers – they started abusing their Subs. We’re talking whippings that break skin. Erotic asphyxiation. It’s against protocol – with or without consent – so we stepped in, but they got aggressive. Steve thought it’d be wise to play their games. To buy us some time he said, before back-up comes. They challenged him to a bet. Steve was one of our most experienced Doms at the time, and our Dungeon Master – my business partner – volunteered to Sub. Anything to get rid of them before things got too serious.

 

“I still haven’t forgiven myself.”

 

Tony observes Maria trace her fingernail along the grain of the wooden counter top as she gathers herself.

 

“Steve lost. And they wanted to take his Sub as a ‘prize’ for two weeks.”

 

And if Tony knows Steve… “He volunteers to go instead.”

 

“He’s stupid like that. If he sees a situation pointed south, he can’t ignore it. While he was there, he didn’t pick up his phone. Didn’t reply his text messages. I don’t know if it was abduction, it damn well looked like one. One week in and I was ready to call the cops. That was when _they_ called to arrange for another event. As promised, on the fourteenth day, they brought Steve back.

 

“He didn’t look the same. Broken.

 

“He Subbed for them, and we put up our best for the sparring. But, I know we had to get Steve help ASAP, and I had my partner snuck out the back door to get some. They found him. And they got nasty. It happened so fast. One of them pulled out a butterfly knife – was _seconds_ away from gutting him.

 

“Steve used himself as _meat shield_ before they got him. Gags and cuffs didn’t slow Steve down.

 

“It was pretty much touch and go for two nights. I was there at the ICU.” Then she suddenly straightens herself, as if she’s just woken up from a trance. “Now you know the story. What will you do?”

 

There’s more meat to the bone here. The decision is already made for him.

 

“I’m getting to the bottom of this.”


	46. Chapter 46

Maria extracts a blue folder from the top drawer.

 

“Take this.”

 

It’s an attendance list dated to the 2012 convention. There are over fifty names on the sheet, but a handful are highlighted in yellow.

 

“Those are the people who got in without referrals, and Subbed for the gang. You might want to start from there.”

 

“Tony? You’re early.”

 

Steve.

 

 _Steve_ is standing at the top of the staircase, and Tony can only imagine how this looks from up there. Maria _slams_ the drawer shut – even she winces as it echoes in the warehouse – and Tony, knowing how important it is to remain discreet, _tears_ the name list free and crams it down his pocket, before tossing the folder into a paper wastebasket like a Frisbee.

 

“… All right.” Steve descends and comes to join them at the counter. He surveys them suspiciously, even raises a brow when he catches Maria prodding at the wastebasket with her toes. “Maria, I’ll be borrowing your room again.”

 

She gestures a go-ahead and leaves.

 

“Come with me.”

 

Somebody save him…

 

Steve holds the door open and lets Tony in. The whiteboard in the seminar room has more scribblings on and PVC scaffoldings littering a corner, but the table and chairs are, like before, pristinely set in the middle.

 

“Sit.”

 

The door clicks. Tony hears a whoosh and the scrape of chair being dragged from one side of the table to… right next to him.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Steve.”

 

“How’s your week?”

 

“… Not bad. Yours?”

 

“Could be better after the Feds leave,” Steve smiles ruefully. “We were told to provide back-up till the end of _last_ week. But, they found new evidence, I think – they don’t tell us much – and they’re extending their stay here. Sam isn’t pleased.”

 

Then Tony almost flinches when Steve’s hand comes up to cup the side of his face. A thumb caresses his cheek, and Tony slowly shifts to look at Steve. Really look at him. Bright blue eyes, a picture of control and confidence.

 

Tony leans into the touch.

 

“How are you?” Steve asks.

 

“Fine. You?”

 

“Never better.”

 

When Steve lets him go to fetch papers and pens, Tony lets out a shuddering breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding. The space where Steve occupies mere seconds ago suddenly feels too vacant for comfort.

 

“We haven’t finalised the terms for our scene.” Steve looks back over his shoulder. “It won’t take long, but are you hungry?”

 

Tony glares, and Steve chuckles to himself. He swears, if Steve pulls out the rubber cock cage again, he’s binning it.

 

“I need to discuss limits with you.” Steve places three leather _dog collars_ – each contained in individual plastic packets – and slides them to Tony’s side of the table. “Subs are required to wear their collars at all time while on the premise. These are glass jewels,” Steve runs a finger over the multifaceted square of fake ruby embedded into the leather. “Red stones for Subs who do not wish to have physical contacts with other guests, yellow stones for those who will tolerate non-sexual contacts with guests, and green for anything goes.”

 

Whoever make these collars have to lay off their Barbie jewellery kit. Seriously.

 

“Well,” Tony considers his options… green looks the least ridiculous, to be honest. “Since I’m gonna be – technically – a sushi platter, red isn’t going to cut it.”

 

“Yellow it is.” And Steve drops the yellow collar into Tony’s lap.

 

“If you’ve already made up your mind, why bother asking me at all?”

 

“We’re also obliged to review the convention’s list of standard etiquettes. They’re all common sense, really.” Steve goes on as if Tony’s never spoken at all, and points at the loose pieces of paper on the table. Tony starts scanning them. Which is annoyingly, an act of complete redundancy because Steve seems to have them all memorised anyway. He paces the short expanse of the room, narrating line after line of the rules.

 

“Subs do not initiate contact with other guests, and that includes other green-collared Subs.

 

“Never leave your partner’s side. If you need help – medical aid or any other professional assistance – there are volunteers on stand-by near every exit.

 

It’s two pages long, and a sizeable chunk of it pertains to the maintenance of participants’ safety and wellbeing. Nothing strikes as odd or kink-specific – aside from the collars and the restrictions that come with them.

 

“Stand up.”

 

Steve himself is standing somewhere off to his right, a respectable distance between them. Steve carefully raises both his hands to chest level.

 

“What are you –”

 

“I’m conducting a quick experiment.”

 

And then, Steve’s fist _comes flying_ towards his face – Tony ducks and yelps – and grabs the plastic chair he was just sitting on. “ _Jesus Christ!_ ” Shit, Steve's lost his mind. Tony continues clubbing thin air with it. Rabidly.

 

And Steve falls back, pinching the bridge of his nose as he goes.

 

“What the _hell_ was that for?”

 

“I’m not taking you to the convention if this is your idea of self-defense.”

 

“ _What?”_ A chair’s as good as any weapon, thank you very much! Especially when it’s the only thing within reach at the first sign of an incoming punch at twenty miles per hour. “What, you want me to start packing an Uzi or something?”

 

“No,” and Steve slowly, _deliberately_ – so that Tony can see what he’s doing and not freak out like a wuss – parries the chair with his forearm. “ _You_ are your best weapon.” He tugs the improvised IKEA-weapon free from Tony’s grip. “You OK?”

 

That’s a fluke, God damn it. That’s just Steve Chuck Norris-ing his ass because he caught him off guard. Tony retaliates with a punch of his own, right when he thinks Steve is distracted with arranging furniture –

 

And he’s suddenly bent over the edge of the table, his arm pulled all the way back to his waist. A choking grip on the back of his neck holds him in place, or maybe that’s just all of Steve’s two hundred pound doing.

 

“OK, I yield!”

 

“Don’t do that again,” Steve warns, without any heat. Tony could’ve mistaken it for a whine.

 

“Yeah, I promise. Damn…”

 

He’s too old for old-school brawling. His deltoid is complaining. “Where did you learn how to do that? Oh wait. Cop, ex-military. Got it.”

 

“And you’re learning some moves, too.”

 

Tony grimaces. Sounds like a lot of hard work. “Yeah? Who’s teaching?”

 

“Me.”


	47. Chapter 47

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

 

“Miss me already? I’m allowed time-out to do my investigations, aren’t I?”

 

“You better be on to something good. Boss-man will have my hide for breakfast at this rate.”

 

“Why, did you finally sew a boo-boo cushion into his seat?”

 

“I… might have told him that you’re chasing something big.”

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

“He was pestering me, man! I had to give him something! Tell me you’re not going around chasing tails.”

 

“I’m not going around chasing tails.”

 

Tony flattens the crumpled name list against his desk. There are a total of seven numbers to call – names highlighted in yellow – and he rubs his palm on the front of his pants.

 

“Rhodey, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I need to make some urgent calls, so I’m gonna have to hang up, OK?”

 

Not knowing what to expect from these cold calls, he decides to take the plunge and dial the first number on the list. It may seem like he’s gotten hold of the community’s very own Yellow Pages, but frankly, he’s not holding his breath. Most of the names sound too generic or exotic, addresses with postcodes missing a couple of digits, and surprise, surprise, the first call comes back with an error tone.

 

The third one goes through, though.

 

“Hello?” Gruff and unwelcoming, looks like somebody is having a bad day.

 

Tony adjusts his grip on the phone. “Hi, this is Tony Stark. I’m a reporter with the Sacramento Bee. This won’t take long, I’ve some questions about the 2012 convention –”

  
“I’m busy.”

 

Whoever it is, hangs up.

 

Tony holds his phone at arm length and stares at it. That’s… good, isn’t it? That sounds like somebody trying to hide something. Tony re-dials the number and crosses his fingers.

 

“Stop calling here! I don’t want nothing to do with them!”

 

“Sir, please, this is important. A man’s life depends on this.” He’s overselling it, but anything to get him some minutes. “I’m calling about the 2012 convention at N & N. You were a guest there, and you,” Tony checks the list in his hand again. “You came in as part of a group. Am I right?”

 

“What are you getting at?”

 

“Something happened, back then. There was a game – a bet, perhaps – that wasn’t on the original schedule. Do you remember that? Did you take part in it?”

 

And the silence drags on. Tony begins to suspect if the man has simply placed his phone on the table and walked away. And then, “It’s all vague memories to me. I remember a guy putting up one hell of a show against our very best. Don’t know his name, and I don’t think I’ve seen him since. A good man, he was. Looked after his Sub real good. Last time I heard, he went with the Winter Soldier as part of some deal and returned for _another_ show, but this time as a _Sub_ for those sons of bitches.”

 

“The Winter Soldier?”

 

“Yeah. Prominent member of the pack.”

 

“Is that a stage name?”

 

“Don’t know. That’s what people call him.”

 

“How did you get to know these people?”

 

His voice drops down a full octave. Tony has to strain his ears to make out the words. “Friend of a friend asked me if I’d like to make a couple of quick buck. Brought me to this… private coffee house. Pretty classy place. Had to dress up and all. Friend told me that’s where they operate at sometimes.”

 

Tony blinks. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

 

“Drugs, man.”

 

Tony taps the back of his pen on his desk. “So, your friend introduced you to the gang, which operates from a… private coffee house,” Tony jots down key words in his notepad, “selling drugs.”

 

“Not just selling. They make them as well.”

 

“Mr…” Tony has to do a double take at the attendance list. “Uh, Mr Crimson Dynamo. You do realise this is a serious accusation. Do you have an address? Of the coffee house, I mean.”

 

“You best stay out of that place. It doesn’t look like much, but they have eyes and ears every corner.”

 

“So you _don’t_ have the address?”

 

“Sorry. I was uh, on something, that day. Don’t remember much of _anything_ , in fact.”

 

“All right. Do you have proofs – photographs, video clips perhaps – that you can share with me? I guarantee your anonymity.”

 

“No. But you can talk to the friend I mentioned.”

 

“Was he part of the group at the convention, too?”

 

“Yeah. Stage name’s Whiplash.”

 

Oh boy.

 

And it looks like all the right stars are aligned in heaven, because Mr Whiplash’s phone number turns out to be legit, too. After ten minutes of sombre exchange, Tony tosses his phone onto his bed and rests his head in a cushion of forearms. He mentally re-runs and catalogues all the new information he’s gleaned so far, and they are a doozy.

 

The group – do they have a name he can refer to, because evil, secret organisation deserves a comely name at the very least – has chemists that continually experiment with new formulae and combo, and each year they go looking for test subjects. Why do they go hunting in an underground orgy-sex-kink-BDSM party is beyond Tony. Actually, why would anyone take part in an underground orgy-sex-kink-BDSM party is _also_ beyond him, but that’s an argument for another day. Perhaps these stuff are expensive – they sound like boutique drugs to him – affordable only to clients like esteemed members of N & N’s private club.

 

So they hire these destitute men as mules. Stuff the drugs into toys – Tony remembers throwing up a bit in his mouth when Mr Whiplash was going on about butt plugs – and smuggle their products into the midst of horny men and women.

 

The back of Tony’s mind begins to wander towards murky territories. He wonders what’s so special about these drugs that could possibly beat marijuana or good ol’ coke that’s so worth the risks, when his phone starts buzzing.

 

_How about tonight, 7 pm, AnyTime Gym? I’ll book a room. Steve._


	48. Chapter 48

“Maria, it’s Tony.”

 

“What is it now?”

 

Calling Maria gives him worse jitters than does calling random men bearing even more random names.

 

“Can I have a look at all of your records – in print or digital – of the convention?”

 

“… You got a warrant?”

 

“What do you think I am, a cop?” Tony glances at the clock on his desk. He’s supposed to be meeting Steve in an hour, and it’s a pretty long drive from home. “I followed your lead. Made some calls. Asked some questions. I think I’m on to something here, and I need proof –”

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“What good does it do picking at an old scab? This isn’t necessary. We got Steve back, and he’s fine, isn’t he? Those people haven’t showed up since, and we’ve taken great precautions – so we should listen to Steve. Give it a rest.”

 

Why is Maria humming a different tune? Last he checked, she was super supportive of his research. And why is Steve even in the picture all of a sudden?

 

“What d’you mean, listen to Steve? He doesn’t know, does he?”

 

“He’s not stupid.” Tony hears a drawn, weary sigh. “He caught me alone when I was re-stocking the upstairs showroom and… might’ve asked what we were up to.”

 

Well. Steve must be one hell of a guy to be able to tame a lioness that is Maria Hill. Maybe tonight he can ask Steve to persuade Maria to treat him a little nicer, too.

 

“That’s fine. I’ll deal with the fallout later. Can I still have the records?”

 

“I said, Steve would like us to _not_ pursue this. You want me to repeat this is Tagalog?”

 

“This is bigger than Steve.” His hunch is telling him to dig deeper. There’s more to this than meets the eye, and he hopes against hope that Maria would back him up, even when all he has is that, a hunch. “I’m a reporter, Maria. This is what I do. What I’ve always wanted to do. I may not have a badge pinned to my chest, but it’s about doing what’s right. There is one truth, and the people deserve to know it.” And he wants to bring some God damn closure to Steve. “I know I’m asking a lot. But, please.”

 

“At least Steve’s right about one thing. You just don’t know how to give up, do you?”

 

Tony sags in his chair. “What can I say? I’m charming like that.”

 

“We gave everything we had to the police. Whoever stabbed Steve is still in jail. There was a couple of others, but I don’t keep track. It’s case closed as far as I’m concerned. I might have some back-up copies in a box somewhere.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I wish I can help more. I really do.”

 

* * *

 

When Tony finally hauls ass to one of the rooms upstairs, he finds Steve already sitting on the floor cross-legged, deep in thought. If the furrow between his eyes were to deepen a _wee_ bit more, he’ll be levitating seven inches off the ground.

 

Tony knocks on the door. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was unbelievable.” He drops his duffel bag beside Steve’s.

 

“Sounds like you came packed. What’s in there?”

 

“Uzis.”

 

Tony unzips it with flamboyance. He has gauzes, band aids, hot and cold packs, towels, and salves for minor wounds.

 

“We’re not exactly fighting to maim, Tony.”

 

“Well, I’m sorry I come _prepared._ ”

 

“Come here.”

 

Steve is suddenly waving for him to come closer. Tony narrows his eyes and considers blowing a raspberry because, what is he, five? He comes hither and kneels before Steve anyway - contrary to popular belief, he’s OK with following instructions sometimes, no matter how menial.

 

And Steve makes to grab the hem of his shirt.

 

“Steve!” Tony falls back on his rear – his heart in his throat – and has a death grip about Steve’s wrist.

 

“Relax. I just want to take a look at your injuries. Can I?”

 

"You should lead with that next time."

 

“It’s been two weeks now?” Steve hikes the shirt to his neck. He palpates a tender region under the floating ribs, and once along the sternum. The bruises are gone, and Tony assumes he’s healed. Good as new. Not a single sore spot when he sneezes.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“I just want to make sure.”

 

“So you don’t have to pull your punches when we get down to it?”

 

Steve seems to have a comeback to that – let’s hear it then – but he shakes his head and stands up instead. Tony follows, and wonders why he even bothered to because in under three minutes – that’s one demonstration later – he finds himself flat on his back, on the mat with Steve menacing, no, towering over him.

 

“Did you catch that?”

 

“Catch what?” Tony groans. “My breath?”

 

“What I did.”

 

“You mean how you magically drop my ass on the ground? No.”

 

Steve offers him a hand, which he takes, and can’t quell a new stream of complaints about how long indeed tonight’s going to be.


	49. Chapter 49

“Does this place ever close?”

 

“It’s called AnyTime Gym for a reason, Tony. Get up. Let’s try again.”

 

Tony gets into position. He faces the floor-to-ceiling rows of mirrors and sees Steve slowly advancing on him from behind. It’s not so realistic of course, because these vultures are not going to courteously mount an attack near reflective surfaces. He sees Steve’s knees bend – so he’s going for the bear hug, huh? – and Tony puts a foot forward. When Steve actually wraps his arms around Tony’s waist – yep, it’s the bear hug – he twists around and swings an elbow where he thinks Steve’s face is at.

 

Steve lets him go, but quickly closes in with his fingers around Tony’s neck. It’s the choke hold – sans actual windpipe busting – and Tony parries Steve’s arms with his biceps, before swinging a hammer fist in Steve’s direction.

 

“Very good.”

 

Tony huffs and brushes sweat off his brow.

 

Sure enough, there’s the familiar tug of gravity in his belly and he’s inexplicably, for the umpteenth time tonight, on his back, on the ground. The only difference is, Steve is on four, bodily trapping Tony in a cage of strong limbs.

 

“Don’t ever let your guard down.”

 

“There’s a name for that kind of move. It’s called cheating.”

 

“People are not going to call out their attack right before they do, you know.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s _you_ ,” Tony shifts under Steve, and realises that Steve hasn’t exactly pinned him down to the mat. There’s in fact a lot of leeway between their bodies, and it gives him a sudden stroke of idea. He lifts his knee and angles it till it brushes against Steve’s inner thigh. Yup, he’s a genius. Steve must be feeling it – how can he not – Tony is inching upward… and Steve stares at him like he’s just sprouted two heads. Emboldened, he goes for the jackpot.

 

“Tony, stop.”

 

Damn. Good game, though.

 

“Wise men told me not to let my guard down. So that was me attempting to knee you in the nuts, because you left yourself open.” Then, just to hammer his point home, Tony gestures nonchalantly at Steve’s crotch, and…

 

“Oh,” Tony intones as he flattens his legs. “Sorry.”

 

The bulge is unmistakable. Steve’s _rock hard_ down there.

 

And now, _Tony’s_ confused. Is this… purely biological, because… exercise. Working out. Increased muscle blood flow, erections, they come hand in hand usually, right? _Usually._ Not everything has to be sexualised. It’s been a long day, it’s late, they’re tired…

 

“Tony,” Steve begins softly, but his eyes are fixed intently at Tony’s collarbone. “I know no matter what I say, you won’t let it go.” Oh. Tony thinks he gets what Steve’s talking about. Guess it’s finally time to face the music. “I wish I can convince you to look the other way.”

 

“You don’t mean that.” _Look the other way?_ “I’ve barely scratched the surface! Steve, there is something… _sinister_ going on with those people. I don’t know why they’re not in jail _already_ – frankly that’s long overdue – but if there’s more to it, if there’s as much as a fucking receipt on their drug dealing, I’m on to it. Nothing you say can stop me.”

 

“What drug dealing?”

 

And Tony feels like he’s been doused in ice water. He hasn’t meant to reveal so much to Steve, at least not yet. Not without a shred of evidence in sight. But since the cat is now out of the bag… Tony props himself up on an elbow, and finds himself nose to nose with Steve because Steve, like a stubborn ass he is sometimes, refuses to move aside.

 

“Nothing you don’t know already. I got Maria to give me the guest list and I made some calls. A couple of them mentioned drugs, and I’ve some other leads going on.” Steve doesn’t need to know that he’s making facial composites using Obadiah’s photographs as a starting point. Maybe it’s also wise not to implicate Maria _further_ in this affair. “Actually,” and he feels he should be upfront with Steve about it, better hear it from his mouth than to read it in the papers anyway. “I’m thinking of building a case around this. My first on the job. There’ll be a team meeting next Monday, and I want to present this. I’m not asking for your permission, Steve.”

 

“I know.”

 

And Tony promptly forgets what he’s going to say next. He’s anticipating various kind of reactions from hereon, compliance is not one of them.

 

“At least answer me this. Why? Why _start_ searching at all? There’s nothing worth looking at.”

 

“Nothing worth –” He’s starting to yell. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. “I don’t know why I looked, all right? Maybe I wanted justice to be served? Maybe I wanted to bring you some peace, no matter how little? Or maybe I want them gone, locked behind bars so _you’ll be safe_ , for good. I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to draft out the pros and cons – I just know that deep down, _this is right_.”

 

“I know what it does to you.” Steve brushes the grey underside of Tony’s eye. “But your sympathy is better used on someone else.”

 

“I’m _not_ sympathising with you – or your plight. You’re fine _,_ Steve. You’ve _been_ fine. Just because I know about it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

 

Tony blinks, his pupils blowing up by the millimetres. He feels the deep trench of bewilderment swallowing him – _God, what did he just say? –_ as the words slowly sink in. “I mean, the way I see you. You have me. All right? Deal with it. _You have me_.”

 

“Did you write all that down, or was it something you have top of your head?”

 

“… Maybe you should sympathise _with me._ I tell you I’m officially on Team Rogers, even packed pom-poms in my car, and you decide to wisecrack.”

 

Steve leans in some more, and Tony stills. Their foreheads meet and Steve is so close, Tony can count every lash on his eye, every freckle on his cheek.

 

“Thank you.”

 

So there. That’s how men talk and sort things out. _Wars_ can be avoided, Jesus Christ, if people were to sit down and behave sanely and solve problems with wit and words. For a while that’s how they are, on the floor, bodies framing each other’s, and Tony wants to commit this to memory.

 

“Tony,” Steve speaks again, his forehead still pressing against Tony’s. The stillness is slowly lulling him to sleep. “Forgive me if it isn’t the right time. But is it me, or do we have something more here?”


	50. Chapter 50

There’s one thing biological that Tony believes is true; the male brain is _not_ wired to handle so many neuron firings at any one time when it comes to emotive thinking. Heart-to-heart, feeling-the-feels. He’s short-circuiting like a socket with too much current passing through.

 

He looks up into Steve. The shock hasn’t worn off yet, so there’s still pleasant nothingness rocking his mind. All he knows is that Steve is smiling, his long lashes still dusting his cheeks. His rhythmic breathing calms Tony, and coherency starts trickling in.

 

Being who he is, every day is like sailing into headwind. It’s tough not to conform. To be like everyone else. But if he’s going to take that plunge…

 

“Give me a chance?” Steve nuzzles Tony with his nose. Blue eyes peeking behind heavy lids.

 

He wants to wake up in the morning and greet the world as the man he’s born to be. No more walls, no more monkey charades. No more pretending.

 

“Give _us_ a chance?”

 

Pepper’s going to throttle him if she finds out he’d hightailed out of this again.

 

No more running.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Just as his breath leaves him, Steve leans in to capture his lips with his. Just the soft press of warmth and sincerity. If this is what being with someone else feels like, he’s been missing out. Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and draws him closer, and the kiss deepens. Should’ve done this sooner. 

 

It’s _effortless._

 

And he is free.

 

Who could’ve foreseen that what little they had has grown into so much more. A partnership wrought in perversion that existed on a God damn contract – two months ago feel like yesterday. And he can’t yet believe it’s Steve Roger’s lips that are nursing his with respect and gentle longing. The same guy who’d strapped him down and took him to town over and over again.

 

This one feels almost chaste.

 

And that flutter in his chest swells into a smile, one that grows into a grin, and Steve is suddenly making out with his two front teeth. Tony breaks away as he starts to laugh – and it’s contagious – because Steve’s crowfeet are showing as he rests his forehead on Tony’s again.

 

It takes a while to settle down.

 

“OK?” Steve asks, a thumb coming up to stroke Tony lightly on the cheek.

 

“More than OK.”

 

It’s perfect.

 

* * *

 

“Look who’s finally decided to show up!”

 

Rhodey saunters up to him holding a paper cup, wearing an expression so cheerful it should be made illegal on Mondays. Tony rebalances the box he’s carrying on a knee so he could openly proclaim his bromance with his best buddy in the whole, wide world – with a fist bump.

 

“How you’ve been?” Rhodey brings the cup to his mouth.

 

“Good. Been busy. You?”

 

“Oh, same ol’. Nothing’s really fun until a scandal shows up in town. For a change, people are _not_ scoring goals or shooting hoops with them idiot balls. Gets boring after a while, though.” He nods in the direction of Tony’s box. “Is that for the presentation?”

 

“Yes. Are you coming?”

 

“Yep. Me and the entirety of this floor and three more above us.” Tony groans at that. It’s definite – his boss is a sadist. Technically Tony isn’t even his direct “property” anymore, and yet he’s somehow managed to find special ways to make life harder than necessary. “But I believe in you, Tony. Go rock the house.”

 

“I sure hope so.” He turns towards the elevator, chewing the insides of his cheeks as he does when something slaps on his shoulder from fucking nowhere. And then – oh for fuck’s sake – _Rhodey’s_ half-bent with his arm twisted around _his_ back, Tony’s fingers a vicious curl about his neck. The office people stop doing whatever they were paid to do and crane their necks over the cubicles. And Tony’s box is now an upside-down cubic cardboard, its content scattering all over the place.

 

“Lemme go –” Rhodeys smacks his thighs repeatedly, “Tony, lemme go –”

 

“Shit, I’m so… are you all right?”

 

“Is my arm still attached to my body?” Rhodey gives it a testing roll. “All-you-can-eat sushi buffet. Tomorrow, and you’re treating. Call it emotional compensation.”

 

“… I rather not.”

 

Steve has an approach to mastering skills like an old hermit's. It’s wax on, wax off until Tony can pull it off flawlessly without deliberation. All muscle memory, baby. Which also means, unfortunately, that at the slightest of provocation, before he can even process if it’s just manly skinship or a real threat, it would’ve already been neutralised.

 

He really has to talk to Steve about the whole shoot-first-ask-question-later.

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

Rhodey is holding up a photograph of Steve – with mosaics over the face – bound and desecrated in a ring of people. He now wears a face that better befits Mondays - confused, terrorised even.

 

“What _are_ you up to?”

 

Tony holds the box out, and Rhodey lays it on top of the pile. 

 

“I’m going after the truth.”


	51. Chapter 51

“Steve… trying to work here…”

 

“Just a quick experiment.”

 

“One of _those_ again?” Because Steve has only ambushed him three times before dinner. Constant vigilance!

 

“This is important.”

 

Tony is going through some paperwork on one of Steve’s couches, while Steve is sitting on the floor palming Tony’s groin through the pants he’s wearing. Awfully distracting, sure. Tony has been re-reading sentence two for the fifth time before giving up.

 

“All right, what do you want from me?”

 

Steve pulls himself up to take a seat beside Tony, and scratches his chin but says nothing. So Tony rolls his eyes, because after all the trouble Steve’s gone through to get his prick interested, he now decides to just _leave it be_? What, did he accidentally turn Steve’s laundry pink earlier this afternoon?

 

Tony goes back to his document.

 

“The event is in two weeks.”

 

“I know.” There’ll be toys and food and wine and making merry in two weeks’ time. Looking forward.

 

_Two weeks?_

 

“Wait, what? _Already_?”

 

“And you’re still…” Steve points at Tony’s erection, “sensitive.”

 

“You manage to make it sound both sexy _and_ disappointing. I’m confused.”

 

“It’s a three to five-hour long event, Tony. You’re going to have to sit through it without climaxing –”

 

“OK!” Tony slams his paper down on Steve’s thigh. “You’re giving me ear cancer. Why can’t I shoot my load off – I mean, isn’t that the whole purpose of the show?”

 

“No, it’s not. And you won’t because I’m not allowing you to.”

 

“Really?” Tony levels a look at Steve. “Well, who died and made you Queen?”

 

“Permission, Tony.”

 

Oh, right… they haven’t been doing _that_ in a while, and between work and workouts he’s completely forgotten about it.

 

“Yes.”

 

He’s always found Steve’s upper body strength impressive – and Steve just manages to hook an arm under one his legs and drags him all the way down until he’s lying on the couch, pinned beneath Steve. His shirt has ridden all the way up and his back burns from the friction – seriously, what has he done wrong today? – but immediately after all he sees and feels is Steve. Steve’s still smooth and damp from the shower not so long ago, and Tony gets a whiff of spearmint toothpaste when he dips lower to nibble about Tony’s pulsing jugular.

 

“Whoa, Steve,” Tony groans breathlessly, shifting a bit to ease the pin-and-needles in his left arm. “What’s gotten into you?”

 

Don’t get him wrong. This feels amazing. They grunt in unison as Steve grinds their pelvises together. Too many layers of clothes between them. There’re desires. There’re also questions.

 

“You were never this –” Steve starts tugging at Tony’s waistband, “horny?” Choice of diction could be better, he admits.

 

“I held myself back all this while thinking you weren’t interested.” Steve lifts Tony up by the waist to ease the pants off, as Tony grips Steve by his bicep and holds him there.

 

“What? Why – since when?” 

 

“You were… having some difficulties, coming to term with who you are.”

 

“… And you know this how?”

 

Steve backs up and sits civilly on the other end of the couch. How did it get from _here_ to _there_?

 

“You talked in your sleep.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“I can’t have you that way. Or force you to have me.”

 

Then, Steve tosses him a quick smile, his eyes not really meeting Tony’s and he vamoose into the kitchen.

 

Tony’s pants is still pooling about his calves.

 

Damn.

 

Steve didn’t used to be like this, did he? Tony fixes himself and rubs his temples. This is classical behaviour of someone trying to _say something_ – open up – and not having the guts to go through it.

 

He thought he knew Steve.

 

Tony goes to the kitchen and finds him idling by the sink. There's an empty glass beside his hand that he presumably intends to fill, until thoughts, memories, incorporeal voices consume him. Tony understands this well. His own noggin is constantly churning with things. He leans his shoulder against the fridge and announces his presence with a knock on the counter. 

 

“You all right?”

 

Steve nods once, and starts running the tap. He keeps his back against Tony.

 

“You remember Pepper? Told you she’s a childhood friend of mine. She’s getting married next summer, by the way. We’re invited to the wedding. I hope.” Tony scratches the back of his ear. “When I was fourteen, this kid who sat beside me told me he liked Pepper. That’s the age when boys go around talking about… whichever girls they find pretty, whom they fancy, right? So I thought, why not join in the fun?” Steve’s shoulders ease up, and he continues, “I told him I thought this _other boy_ from Math class is attractive. And what do you know, kid went home and told his mom about me, and my day at school – hell, make that at home, too – had never been the same again.”

 

Steve turns a fraction. “I’m sorry to hear –”

 

“Don’t apologise, Steve.” Who is still refusing to look at him. Then he’s _going over there._ “They didn’t know better. I don’t blame ‘em. I used to blame myself. But, that was twenty years ago. Now I’m here, with you, because of you. No, you don’t have to say anything, either.” And Steve purses his lips. “I’m not here to make you trade stories with me. And I don’t mean to imply everybody’s got a sob story so you should just get over yours.  I want to let you know that who you are right now? Is all I’m having. Is all I’m _taking_.” 

 

Tony rests a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

 

“So, I’ve just used my word quota of the day. Want to continue where we left off? In the bedroom?”


	52. Chapter 52

This is what goes through the back of Tony's mind when he decides to pick up a book: if it takes seventy fucking percent of the pages to _get_ to the good part, the last thirty better be _bursting_ with the good part.

 

Irrelevant thought, no?

 

Tony pushes Steve against the headboard and straddles his laps. Shifting pillows around, Tony leans in and kisses Steve he may’ve left bruises – not that he’s regretting it. So much time wasted, he’s got to catch up, right?

 

“Tony,” Nuh-uh, less talkin’ more kissin’, “You were saying about who's getting horny?”

 

Obviously someone still has enough presence of mind to string words together. So, Tony thrusts his hip into Steve’s and there, no complaints. And he keeps going until Steve stills him by the arms.

 

“Slow down.”

 

“You held back ‘cause you thought I didn’t want it.” Tony stuffs his hand down his pants and _does something_ that makes his breaths erratic. “You thought wrong. Shall we make amends?”

 

“… Let me blow you.”

 

Can’t ever say no that.

 

Tony sheds his clothes and slides to the other side of the bed. Steve follows, until he’s half-lying on his stomach, supported by an elbow.

 

It’s been a while since the last one that Tony almost forgotten how it felt like being inside Steve’s mouth.

 

He responds appropriately, little mews and sighs, a couple of desperate wrenches of Steve’s hair… but it doesn’t quiet the distinct feeling that he should be doing something, too. Giving back. Steve’s head starts bobbing earnestly and like hell if Tony Stark is going to be the record fastest ejaculator in Steve’s bed.

 

“Wait up, Steve – stop.”

 

Steve pulls himself up, his bottom lip glistening with moisture. “I can take it.”

 

“Let me return the favour.”

 

And in the dimness of night, Tony sees Steve’s eye narrow into a glint. Why the freaking _hesitance_ – don’t people _jump_ at the offer of having their meat blown – oh yeah… Tony remembers he’s rather lacking in the BJ department. Last time they tried he almost severed Steve’s penis with his incisors.

 

“Call it, uh, a learning in progress thing. Like those self-defense moves you make me do.”

 

“Those are important.”

 

“This _isn’t_?”

 

“… Not really.”

 

“That’s rhetorical, Steve.”

 

Tony grabs at Steve’s waistband nevertheless and gives it a testing tug. And Steve’s glorious cock springs out of the baggy confinement, beckoning like a siren’s call. This should be easy. _Steve makes it look easy._

 

So, Tony goes down.

 

Porn brainwashes him into thinking this is the best thing ever… hell, porn makes _everything_ looks better. Tony doesn’t think taking someone else’s cock in his mouth is ever going to be palatable, but people do it anyway – with gusto, if going by Steve’s effort. He closes his mouth fully over the length and bobs his head, too. It’s called taking a leaf out of Steve’s book.

 

Steve threads his fingers through Tony’s hair.

 

“Tony, turn around.”

 

Tony swallows the remnant of bitterness on his tongue and tries _not_ to cough. “What?”

 

“Turn around.” Steve is already guiding him to face the opposite wall of his room.

 

“What, are you sending me out? I swear I’m not biting it off.”

 

Steve’s hand slithers between his thighs to knead his balls – so are they still doing this or _not_? – when Steve gives him a firm press at the nape of his neck. “On four, Tony.”

 

Fine. On four. He feels heat colouring his face as he imagines how it’s going to look like from Steve’s vantage point. His asshole in clear view, his painfully erect cock and balls bowing to gravity. The ultimate “fuck me” invitation in the history of male on male sex –

 

Before he could process _that_ thought, he feels a sudden jostle behind him and Steve’s cock slides into view, right under his nose. The tip still looks fresh from Tony’s inexperienced abuse –

 

His elbows almost give out when Steve – from somewhere, behind, most likely – lays open-mouthed kisses along _his own_. How on earth did they get into a 69 – Steve resumes working like there wasn’t any interruption in the first place, and Tony is back to feeling he’s getting off any moment now. Quickly, he dives down onto Steve’s.

 

And oh, this is rather ingenious.

 

Tony copies Steve blow by blow. Every lick, every lap. Down to the rhythm and hum… he’s impressed. Steve’s creativity in mentorship is endless.

 

Tony’s control starts slipping as he’s rapidly approaching the edge, and Steve continues long after Tony’s released him in favour of _biting down_ as pleasure embraces him – good thinking there. He grips Steve warningly about his thighs – if he eases his jaws now he won’t be able to keep it down – but Steve just thrums around him and goes on.

 

His funeral.

 

Tony’s hip jerks – sluggish bucks that escape his restraints – and he’s soon lying on his side, utterly spent. And they stay there, side by side in sheets damp with sweat and semen.

 

Steve’s cock is still needing.

 

“How close are you?” Tony grips it and pumps.

 

“Quite…”

 

True enough, it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes for Steve to come.

 

They both turn in rather early that night. That is, after the compulsory showers – separately – and a fresh change of sheets. The last mental buzz that rocks him to sleep is about how to reciprocate Steve’s… expertise, because he’s not a selfish lover – and the naggy sensation that the nightstand looks bare without a photo frame. 


	53. Chapter 53

Tony’s seen what astronauts eat in space. Brownish paste squeezed out of a tube, chock full of all the goodies. Yum. Like eating toothpaste, he supposes. If they taste as good as instant mac and cheese, he would’ve loaded his cabinet with those and have them three times a day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Who has time to spare on grocery shopping, ingredient preparation, _actually_ manning the stove – give him a break.

 

But that was before Steve, all right?

 

This morning is one helluva morning. It begins with waking up in Steve’s bed, warm and toasty under Steve’s blanket, to the sound of Steve’s shower running and the coffee pot a-brewing on the kitchen island.

 

By seven, there’s toast and jam and fruits and coffee in front of him…

 

How domestic.

 

Even if it’s only something like three days since The Question at the gym.

 

And peace never lasts long enough.

 

“How did your presentation go?” Steve asks easily as he returns the coffee pot to its dock.

 

“It went fine.” He starts buttering Steve’s toast. He meant to break the news right after the meeting. Somehow he never made the call. “They greenlighted it.”

 

“So, you’re officially working on the case now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s good to know.”

 

They sit in silence and preoccupy their mouths with chewing.

 

“Someone is interested in my book.”

 

Steve accidentally elbows his fork off the table. “I thought you’d put a brake on that.”

 

“I haven’t mentioned it for a while. I know. I didn’t actually, add anything new to the first draft.”

 

“So, it’s the same one you gave to Stane?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you meeting him again –”

 

“No, it’s not Stane.” Shit. He should’ve opened this conversation with something else. Steve is now glaring at his bread like it’s taken a dump right there in the dish. “It’s a – what I call – a wild card company. They don’t do print, only online publishing. I’m liaising with the CEO direct – doesn’t sound big shot now, does it? He calls himself Nick Fury. Goofy name.”

 

Tony grabs an apple from the fruit basket.

 

Chewing. Can’t talk.

 

In fact, they don’t talk again until “See you at dinner” before piling into their respective cars.

 

* * *

 

“Maria, I know you’re in there. Let me in.”

 

Mere two blocks away from the office, Tony got a message from Maria about the 2012 convention. The traffic light blared red, so did the tail light of the car before him, and he swerved sharply to its left and floored it.

 

Because that’s how he rolls. 

 

He’s been battering the doorbell for the past five minutes half-screaming into the speaker – in case it’s broken and the people inside can’t hear him – which doesn’t seem to be the case since there are _shadows_ flitting past the interior. People. _Staff_. Tony hears the bell chiming loud and clear. So must they.

 

“Come on, don’t be a sadist! Let me in, please!”

 

The door clicks. The knob is malleable.

 

“You just have to say the magic word, Mr Stark.”

 

And Tony scowls at the CCTV as he lets himself in.

 

He doesn’t harbour much hope as he descends into the basement. Maybe a tape or two. Grainy.

 

Maria greets him with a thumb drive.

 

“This is all I have.”

 

It’s a paltry 2 GB. Which antique shop did she go to pilfer _this_?

 

“That’s just the catalogue.” Then she heaves another box onto the counter the size of a modest microwave oven. “DVDs. From the convention, and the private show two weeks after.”

 

Tony would’ve hugged her. Paid her bills. Bought all the plastic dildos in the discount bin for her.

 

“Make it count, Stark.”

 

Tony pulls the box towards him. And while he’s at it… “I got another question for you.” He drums anxiously over the cardboard top. “Can you teach me howtohavesexwithaman.”

 

“… Say that again?”

 

Tony feels cold sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m not…” and he sighs, “ _experienced_ , if you may, in that department. Sex. With another man.” He sees Maria giving him a contemplative look. “All right. Get it out of your system. Laugh.”

 

“First time?”

 

“No, I’m just asking for kicks, I’m actually knee deep in assholes. What d’you think, Maria?”

 

“Does Steve know?”

 

“… Yes.” He’s going to let this slide. Everybody seems to know what’s going on between the lines, it’s creepy. Is he that transparent? “I want to make this – us – work.”

 

“Sex is not all there is to a functional relationship,” and she raises a brow. “Offering yourself up isn’t going to help.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“Do you want it?”

 

Maybe that’s what this really is about. It’s not about Steve, it’s about him. Heck, this isn’t about him affirming his gayness with man-on-man sex. This is about him wanting to be physically connected to Steve, taking him high and satiating him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“OK,” Maria tucks a stray lock behind her ear. “I’ll give you some starter kit. On the house.”


	54. Chapter 54

“Pepper?”

 

“Anthony Edward Stark. You always call when I least expect you to.”

 

“Is this a bad time?”

 

“With you?” She chuckles on the other side of the call, as Tony fiddles with the frayed end of his rug with his toe. “Never. How are you doing?”

 

“I’m good. _We’re_ good, actually.”

 

“’We’? There’s a ‘we’ now?”

 

“Yes. Since last Saturday.”

 

“Wow. I would, you know, congratulate you. Why don’t you sound happy?”

 

“I… Pepper,” Because hasn't he said this? Nothing is impervious to the omniscient Pepper Potts. “Hypothetically speaking. If you know, deep down, that you’re doing something right. Something _lawful_ , even. Which is about against everything else people believe in. What will you do?”

 

“Sometimes it’s the best that we could ever hope for. Doing the right thing. Go for it, Tony.”

 

“Sucks that this doesn’t _feel_ right, Pep.”

 

Tony kicks at Maria’s box and lets it stew under his desk. He next slams his laptop shut and walks over to the window sill, one half of him bathing in the afternoon sun. He meant to go do some work at the office after N & N, but just couldn’t find it in him to be among a crowd. He can do the same work at home anyway, so here he is – to his own bed and duvet that somehow feel a little too cold.

 

The furthest he went was to unseal the taped lid of the box.

 

“You don’t have to hurry into a relationship just because you’ve decided to come out. Give yourself some time –”

 

“It’s not about being with Steve. He’s one of life’s greatest blessings, and they don’t exactly come easy.” He lifts the window pane. He needs the fresh air. “I’m doing something that I think, is hurting him. No, it’s not like that,” he adds when he hears Pepper’s sharp intake of breath. “Not an _affair_. I’m working on this case. Steve and the people I’m investigating… have a history. One I know he wants to put behind. When I first found out about it, I didn’t think. I pursued the evidences, wanted so bad to get to the bottom of it. Now I can’t.”

 

“Bottom of what?”

 

“Of what happened to Steve.”

 

Then Pepper says nothing. For a good whole minute, she keeps her silence and Tony squats by the window. He thinks he hears it all the same.

 

“You think I’m doing this wrong.”

 

“Tony…”

 

“This shouldn’t be personal. It’s a job, and I _can’t_ make it about Steve. I’m just hiding behind my ‘case’ while I do whatever it is behind Steve’s back to justify my trespasses. You have more to add?”

 

“Why did you call me?”

 

“… I miss you.”

 

An hour after the call, Tony still can’t give the box a millisecond extra worth of damn. So he turns on his laptop again and opens up another folder he’s banished to the top right corner of the desktop.

 

He thinks he might as well do Fury a favour and pad the draft up with more chapters.

 

* * *

 

It’s been fifteen minutes.

 

It’s six in the evening, the sun is an orangey blob in the sky, and Tony’s _still_ in his car. He’s turned off the engine and is about to get out and lock it down, but it’s like he has lead plates welded to his butt.

 

He idles in his seat and looks over to Steve’s window.

 

He discovers a newfound admiration and awe for Steve’s inner strength. How he’s able to internalise and keep the terrors sealed. Actually, Tony isn’t sure if that’s acceptance or denial. Shit happens, right? Shit will always murk things up, and it’s up to them to decide if they want to flush it away or ignore the floating piece. Ugh, the imagery.

 

Tony rests his forehead on his steering wheel.

 

Back then he was so gung-ho about doing this. Investigating Steve’s past, looking into the drug-dealing organisation – which is a by-the-way façade that he’s unearthed by chance – and why is he only hesitating now?

 

He looks at Steve’s window again. There’s light now.

 

Steve’s home.

 

He rubs his eyes violently with his knuckles until he sees white claws. God, he’s an idiot. He remembers having a resolve so strong that Steve begging him to stop wasn’t enough to shake it. He remembers the way he hunted evidence with such fervour he forgot about eating and sleeping. So what’s changed?

 

Tony jumps when his window is rapped at hard, twice. It’s not illegal to park outside someone else’s house to stalk ‘em, is it?

 

“Want to come in?” _Steve_ ’ _s_ head poked into view. Tony scowls. This man’s perception of presences is bordering supernatural. “I’ve got meatballs.”

 

“Mm. Handmade?” Tony feels his face tauten.

 

“From the supermarket. Maybe if I have a kitchen assistant, you know, to help out with the cooking, we can have better stuff for dinner.”

 

“I’ll look up the job ads for you.”

 

“… Have you been crying?”

 

Tony brings his knuckles to his eyes again – _had he?_ – but finds them dry.

 

“Your eyes are red. Are you OK?”

 

“Yeah. Long day, Steve.” He plucks his keys off the ignition. “Been staring at the computer too long. What d’you know, I just added two more chapters to my book.”

 

“Well, then I have just the thing to celebrate it with. Want to come in?”

 

And that, is something he could do.


	55. Chapter 55

“Oh no, no. I’d soon learn how to eat with my toes than this. What in the _world_?”

 

Tony waggles the leaflet Steve’s just handed him over a plate of steaming meatballs. Which is unfortunate, because Steve almost had to follow that up with the Heimlich manoeuvre as Tony gags on his eggs. The front page has the picture of a baby baboon and the eye-catching title “Brazilian waxing” splashed across in bold.

 

“I thought only chicks do this.”

 

“That’s not a nice thing to say. Besides, one way or another, you got to lose those keratins.”

 

“And pray tell why.”

 

Steve swallows his mouthful of broccoli. “Would you eat sushi off a very hairy person?”

 

The Japanese made _nyotaimori_ – or _nantaimori_ if the platter has a dick between his thighs – an exquisite art form. Delicate sushi arranged on the front of naked beauties. So very titillating. A match made in heaven. The American equivalent of peanut butter and jelly, which coincidentally is something Tony _also_ finds very sexy.

 

There’s a reason why this… art form hasn’t really taken off. Little inconveniences like health and moral concerns making body sushi outlawed in most places.

 

“If you’re that embarrassed about booking a slot, I can do it on your behalf.”

 

“Hell no.”

 

“If you have a better idea, I’m all ears. Would you rather I shave you myself with a razor?”

 

Why? Is one week of normalcy too much to ask for? Just him and Steve being normal guys hanging out doing normal things, talking about normal stuff that doesn’t involve waxing and munching food off his body.

 

“Honestly, that sounds like the most sensible thing I’ve heard this entire week. I’m game if you are.”

 

Steve stabs the stalk of his broccoli with his fork. “All right. We’ll do it next week. Either Wednesday or Thursday. That should give you time to get adjusted to the sensation.”

 

“Adjusted?”

 

“Ever shaved yourself?”

 

“Do you see me rocking a beard like Abe Lincoln?”

 

“I don’t mean your facial hair.”

 

“… Oh.”

 

And thank the heavens, that was _that._

 

After shower, despite it still being too early for bed, Tony is sprawled in one, butt naked save for the towel wrapped about his waist. Steve himself is prowling the halls, drawing curtains and dimming the lights, while Tony tries to keep his eyes open and not surrender to food coma.

 

“Stay awake, Tony,” Steve calls from outside. Tony breathes in deeply and turns to his side. “We can’t keep postponing your endurance training.”

 

What now? _What endurance training?_ Is this something Steve makes up on the fly? Nobody’s told him anything about endurance training.

 

“If this is about you keeping me on edge and not letting me blow my load off,” Tony shouts back, “I pass.”

 

“That’s not what I mean.”

 

“OK! Steve, for God’s sake,” Tony kneads the side of his head, “can we not be shouty about this? I’m not sure if the neighbours wanna tune in to this lovely conversation.”

 

And Steve enters the bedroom, hugging a basin of little plastic containers the size of sauce dishes, individually filled with rice grains. He kicks the door shut with his foot and lays the basin by the foot of the bed.

 

“Offerings?”

 

“Training supplies.” Tony eyes slide sideways to the red nylon rope resting atop the nightstand in a coil. Old friend.

 

“Permission?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Steve climbs into the bed and Tony scoots over to make space, until they’ve somehow arranged themselves with Steve on four, over Tony who’s flat on his back. First thing Steve does after getting Tony into position is ridding him of the towel. While completely ignoring his half-mast cock – what a shame – Steve next raises Tony’s knees, and pulls at his wrists until they’re aligned with his feet.

 

“Hold your ankles.”

 

The ropes fasten his arms to his legs, which isn’t so bad, Tony thinks. The cram may set in later, but say... fifteen minutes of this shouldn’t be a problem.

 

“I’ve set my phone to ring in one hour.” Well, fuckity fuck. “Don’t drop any of these.” Steve places those rice-filled containers at random spots over his body. Maybe next time he should use heated rocks instead. Light up some scented joss sticks. Chant some mantra.

 

“While we’re at this, let’s finetune the details of our scene.”

 

Let’s get this straight. There’s him bound in ropes on the bed, naked, with a hardening cock between his legs and Steve thinks it’s a good idea to call for a _meeting_?

 

“I suppose we should do away with the more mundane of things… but possibly the most important. Our scene is scheduled to be an hour long, and I’m not sure how large the table is going to be… if it’s larger we can try cuffing your ankles to the table legs instead. That should be more comfortable. The food has to be certified safe for consumption of course, so N & N will handle the catering. In fact, the food shouldn’t contact any surface of your skin directly. I’m thinking banana leaves… Maria e-mailed me the guidelines, and it says you have to be uh, ‘properly cleansed prior to the plating’ – which goes without saying – and there’s a private bathroom that we can use for this purpose. You should have a cold shower to lower your body temperature…”  

 

And there’s only one thought, one _need_  that cuts through the drawl: how badly Tony wants to scratch that itch on his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this chapter was written at the airport XD I'm boarding a midnight flight to Perth, but I'll try my darndest to update this fic at the usual rate. In the meantime, keep on rockin' the free world~


	56. Chapter 56

“… and they’re throwing in a can of pineapple rings, free of charge.”

 

Tony grips and un-grips his ankles. Steve has been going on for quite a bit now, and he’s starting to _not_ feel his toes.

 

“How long?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Is it one hour yet?”

 

“We’re past the twenty-minute mark.”

 

Tony heaves a dramatic sigh. The container on his stomach wobbles.

 

“Watch it, Tony. You’re supposed to keep still.”

 

“Sorry. You were saying something about the pineapples?”

 

“… We’re getting a can of those for free. I know, it’s a bit out of place. Seems like a waste not to put them to use, though.”

 

Tony huffs indignantly. “How about you pile those pineapple rings around my dick? Anybody wanna have a bite can go down on me. I don’t mind.”

 

“If you say so,” Steve shrugs. “We got to wrap you up in condoms… I don’t think there’s any rule  against that sort of food play.”

 

“At some point of this conversation, I’m not sure if you were being sarcastic or not.”

 

“I mean every word I say, Tony.”

 

“… Guess that settles that, then.”

 

Tony draws in another deep breath and doesn’t really care that the precariously balanced container on his stomach topple off sideways. So what, right? It’s not like Steve’s going to penalise him with eating uncooked rice grains or something. Sure enough, that mistake doesn’t go unnoticed. Steve’s hand is suddenly on him – around his cock – jerking him that another container on his right pectoral tip over as well.

 

If punishment is pleasure…

 

“You’re collared yellow, so you’re giving consent to people touching you, non-sexually." Steve cups his balls and thumbs across a prominent vein there. "Who's allowed to touch you here?"

 

Tony huffs and blinks at Steve.

 

"Answer me, Tony. Who's allowed to touch you here?"

 

"You are," he grits out. "Only you... are allowed."

 

"Any time you feel uncomfortable, let me know. Do not suffer in silence, do you understand that?”

 

He moans out a yes.

 

And Steve suddenly swipes all the stupid containers off his body. Tony instinctively rolls over to his side, but is held in place as Steve climbs over him, straddling his legs. They’re kissing again, beat-less, rhythm-less, just lips and tongues everywhere – until Steve shows him some mercy and allows him a breather.

 

“OK,” Tony pants, “that’s a waste of good imaginary food, I’ll say.”

 

Steve grips his cock tighter and Tony sinks deeper into his pillow. Steve’s not going to touch him like this at the convention, is he… in public, in front of everyone – including Maria – this is supposed to be private, and –

 

Steve rains more open-mouthed kisses _everywhere_ – that set of lips have to be made illegal – over his neck, his chest, his stomach, all the while as he works incessantly on his cock. Callous finger pads caressing all the right indents. Tony feels it again, the taut pressure in the depth of his belly, and he tenses in his bonds.

 

Whoa, too fast, too fast.

 

“Shit, Steve – this part of – of the training?”

 

“No. My fault. Can’t stop myself.” Steve leans in and pecks him lightly by the ear. Another brush over a vein, a needy squeeze over the head. “Come, Tony.”

 

Steve kisses him again, shutting him up as he spills all over Steve’s hand. He’s a goner. It’s as if his body answers only to Steve – his touches, his voice – and there’s nothing left to do but surrender. There’s semen – warm – dribbling over his stomach which he ignores, as he presses his lips against Steve’s once more. There’s a pleasant buzz at the back of his head, and a general feeling of numbness everywhere else. And Steve feels so good above him, weighing down on him.

 

“Hmm,” Tony finally breaks away and surveys the mess he’s made, “is this gonna be our new nightly routine?”

 

Steve laughs lightly and begins to untie the ropes. Resumption of circulation is every bit unpleasant, by the way. Tony rubs at the welts awkwardly while Steve mops up bodily fluids from the bedsheets and parts of their bodies – because this is all his doing anyway.

 

As much as Tony would like to see Steve play maid, he notices Steve’s still sporting a painful erection. Unthinkingly, he goes to grab it –

 

“No,” Steve stills him by the wrist. “It’s fine, Tony. I’ll handle that in the bathroom.”

 

Tony withdraws and watches Steve nurse a spot on the mattress with tissue papers. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No,” and he smiles. Tony’s not convinced. “Don’t worry about me. Help me clear this up?” Steve next shoves him the basin. “Put it under the bed. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

 

Son of a bitch.

 

Steve strips out of his clothes – Tony should spend several seconds admiring that, but finds picking up rice-filled containers more enjoyable somehow – and wraps Tony’s towel about himself. Just as Tony’s kicking the basin under the bed with his toes, Steve turns around and asks, “Do you want to stay here, with me, until the event?”

 

There’s a bunch of ways to interpret that. In between the line speaking, it can be either please-move-in-with-me or let’s-take-this-a-step-further or holy-shit-wanna-get-hitched? But because Tony understands Steve-speak as well…

 

“You mean, stay here for another week?”

 

“Yes. For general convenience.”

 

True that. Ever since they’ve started “training” at Steve’s place, Tony’s doubled the amount of time spent commuting. They’ve only gone back to the gym once so Steve could teach Tony the groin-stomach-back-groin-groin-groin attack – basically, kicking or kneeing evil bastards in that specific order – and Tony seriously considered spending the night in the locker room because he was aching all over and sleepy like hell he’d probably crash his car on the way home… and if starting from tonight _this_ is what they’re going to keep doing – which ends with him howling at the moon – hoo boy.

 

“OK.”


	57. Chapter 57

Tony thinks his assholery stems from the fact that he hates hypocrites, so he tries his darndest not to _be_ one. He means what he says, he does what he thinks. A hundred percent honest-to-God, what-you-see-is-what-you-get. Some people don’t get that, apparently. Some people think, the world should only see the best of Tony Stark. As for the worst, either stow it, or fake it. Imagine that, fake niceties. Fake it till you make it, what Rhodey used to say, before he gave up because Tony is _that_ incorrigible.

 

Know what he is now? A fucking hypocrite.

 

The next morning after coffee and toast - still trying to get used to having breakfast at a proper table with company - Tony kisses Steve once on the side his lips, once fully _on_ the lips, and waves him goodbye. He jumps into the car, bouncing all the way and drives to the first traffic light, before he sags in his seat and tries to at least keep up the smile. He’s happy, for God’s sake, he truly is.

 

But he knows that he’s also well on his way back home to view Maria’s CCTV vids that makes his heart break a little.

 

He’s spent some time thinking about this. And every time he thinks about it, he arrives at the same end, the same cardboard box that is currently stewing under his desk in his bedroom.

 

He makes it a point to go after all other leads _besides_ the CCTV vids. Like the guest list from Maria? Check. That is a dead end, sort of, since all he learns about is basically a guy called the Winter Soldier and this private coffee house where they do their drug business. No real name, a face or a functional address to work from. Facial composites? Check. And that’s about all there is, really. Some pixelated mugshots with no means of matching them to an identity, mostly because he’s not a cop with access to criminal databases. He considered contacting Sam behind Steve’s back and asking for a favour, no kidding, but after a coffee and a slice of toast, he thought better of that suicidal plan.

 

So what’s left is those vids.

 

And Steve.

 

He steps harder on the accelerator and swipes a hand through his hair. He’d rather watch the video ten times over before asking Steve to relieve his memories for a fucking newspaper article.

 

* * *

 

“We brought a set of ours, Captain. All the way from home. Be a shame not to use one of these custom-made whips tonight.”

 

“We don’t allow whips of that thickness here. We have new ones that you can use –”

 

“Oh, so this is how N & N pushes for product sales?”

 

Tony bites his fingernails as he follows this man – as tall and bulky as Steve, with shoulder-length dark hair, and a personality that makes Tony’s knuckles itch for a punch. This camera seems to have been suspended from the ceiling, possibly in between the light-work. A good vantage point. He sees almost everything that goes onstage. Right now there are six people on it, two of them on their knees, strapped to a bench with their backs facing outward. Steve and Mr Asshole clearly are the opposing Doms. And two more unknowns who don’t appear to do much but standing around looking important.

 

“This is our house rule, Bucky,” Tony hears Steve grit out. Who the hell is Bucky? “Your whips will cause lacerations, and we don’t allow those plays here.”

 

“Nonsense. He can take it. Can you?”

 

The Sub nods – maybe, Tony can’t really say for sure – and Bucky brings the whip down on his back before Steve could say another word.

 

This is ridiculous. Tony pulls at his hair. He knows a properly run convention allows their guests to keep their cell phones in case of emergency. This looks like a freaking emergency! Why didn’t anyone call the cops? Why didn’t Steve? Or Maria?

 

Come to think of it, where _is_ the crowd? The ones that are _not_ a bunch of hooligans and clearly rooting for Bucky.

 

“Don’t force my hands, Bucky.”

 

“Stop calling me that. I’m not him.”

 

“What _happened_ to you?”

 

Another crack of whip, and now Tony hears a muffled grunt of pain. Not pretentious, not one mixed with pleasure. Just… pain.

 

“Stop.”

 

“You want me to stop? Let’s play.”

 

The men who blended so well into the background finally move to the centre stage to readjust the straps on the Subs. They flip them over, and reaffix the cuffs so that the men now lie facing the ceiling, their front facing their Doms.

 

Steve kneels beside his Sub and whispers something to his ears. Tony can’t hear them, but he sees the Sub nod, and Steve removes his gag.

 

“Hey,” Bucky flicks his wrist and his whip lash sharply across Steve’s arm. The crowd jeers. That’s a rule broken, isn’t it? No Dom-Dom antagonism or shit. Tony’s eyes dart all over the screen. Why is this still _allowed_ to happen?

 

Steve doesn’t even flinch.

 

“ _Come on_ , leave the gag on. Gone soft, Steve? I hear you have a reputation out here. _Captain America._ Pretty ostentatious, don’t you think? So unlike you.”

 

“Remove his gag, Bucky.”

 

“Why? You want to hear him scream?”

 

“… You want to put him through that, you got to let him breathe. Or at least let me bring in the medics –”

 

“No outsiders is our deal, Cap. Just you and me, and my boys.”

 

“Which isn’t very fair.”

 

“Yet here you are.”

 

Bucky does go and remove the gag, and his Sub coughs shakily. He spares a grateful nod at Steve, which earns him a slap across the face.

 

“Bucky, _please!_ ”

 

“Can it. Now, rule of the game: five strokes from each of us, the Sub that finishes first, wins.”

 

“Do we work only on our Sub?”

 

“Of course. I don’t think your Sub will survive me after all.”

 

Tony wants to rip out the audio jack so bad but doesn’t want to risk missing out on vital information. He sits through the screams and cracking of leather whips on flesh. Steve doesn’t use all of his five strokes on what Tony presumes are common erogenous zones. It’s not tactical, but knowing Steve, as much as he wants to win, he isn’t going to start bleeding anyone for it. The spots that gain the best kind of reactions are often the inner thighs and lower abdomen, especially the nether regions – tender areas that could end the game prematurely if handled wrongly.

 

Bucky doesn’t seem to care.

 

Luckily, Tony – and everyone else in the video – has to endure the show for only ten minutes. Bucky throws his whip down and his arms up at the crowd, triumphant, as his Sub heaves in his bonds. There’s no other explanation, Bucky’s Sub has got to be a masochist. How else could a man handle that kind of beating and still climax with such vigour semen shoot all the way up to his face?

 

“Honour your word, Steve. I get your Sub for a week.”

 

Steve is already securing a black towel about the man's shoulders. “No.”

 

“No? That’s not what we agreed on.”

 

“You’re not taking him.” Even from here, Tony recognises that tone, that posture. This is Steve playing hero. Tony knows what is coming next. “Take me instead.”

 

“No. What would I do with another Dom?”

 

“I’ll be your Sub. For _two_ weeks. Even you can’t say no to that.”

 

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. If anything – and Tony may be imagining it – Bucky’s shoulders droop, and his fists clench and unclench by his sides. His lackeys are back to chanting “Take him! Take him!”

 

Peer pressure is a bitch.

 

“You’re mine for two weeks. You’ll regret it.”

 

Steve’s Sub rushes forward, so did all the others – Tony hears more screaming, and something _flies_ towards him – before all he sees is a crack on the screen and black and white pixels that don’t make any more sense.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some readers have expressed discomfort at chapters not being labelled with appropriate warnings. My bad :( I'll go back and place the appropriate warning labels, but that might take a while, so in the meantime perhaps I'll start with future chapters first? This one has descriptions of Steve/Bucky vs N & N in a private event.

Fifteen minutes. Just give him fifteen freaking minutes to gather some courage to press “Play” on that last DVD. It doesn’t help that he keeps having involuntary flashbacks of every single photograph of Steve as Bucky’s plaything for those two weeks. Vivid snapshots of what may have been. His imagination fills in the gaps, unhelpfully. This DVD he’s pushed into the player is the recording of the second private event between N & N and Bucky, one final showdown before they return Steve to Maria – eternalised in bytes.

 

And in all honesty, he doesn’t think Steve actually _regretted_ the decision.

 

And if Steve doesn’t, what is Tony afraid of?

 

He clicks “Play”.

 

It’s about half the length of the initial game, which morbidly enough, allays some amount of dread Tony’s harbouring as he sits through the first minute. He hunts for Steve from the very beginning, thinking that it’s bound to be the worst, most tortured looking Sub onstage –

 

Steve is there. Naked, chained to a makeshift pole which another Sub is also sharing, a gag in his mouth – but he doesn’t look vastly indistinguishable from two weeks back. It’s just Steve. Not a blemish on his body, at least, nothing that Tony can make out immediately.

 

The audio is pretty terrible on this one, or perhaps it’s just the blood pounding in his ears mudding everything else. He expects something outrageous, something so sudden his finger is constantly hovering over the “Playback” button.

 

There’s the obligatory blowjob. Tony can watch that. Tony watches Steve take Bucky in his mouth.

 

There’s also the part where Bucky grab Steve by the waist and make thrusting motions behind him. Can’t quite see it from here. It’s kind of blurry. The whole scene is. The screen, too. Watery and blurry.

 

Then, what Tony has been keeping his eyes and ears peeled for, happens. There’s a sharp commotion about the 15:17 mark and something else is obviously taking place there and then – off screen – Tony has to turn the volume up to get a rough gauge of anything, when Steve somehow manages to break free and run so God damn fast towards the right end of the stage, towards one of the men Bucky appears to be yelling at.

 

Then, Steve collapses.

 

The video feed ends with people fleeing via the two exits flanking the stage while people that Tony doesn’t recognise – maybe he does, he just doesn’t bother with that particular detail now – swarm over Steve with first aid kits.

 

Tony replays the video and pauses it at 0:34, in which Bucky stands before a kneeling Steve, like a butcher would to a pig ready for slaughter.

 

Tony’s hand tightens about his mouse.

 

This is his lead. His way in.

 

* * *

 

A beer bottle later – enough to have that nice little buzz between his ears while still all here, present and lucid – Tony pulls out another box from under his bed. He’s taken to calling it Maria’s homo starter kit. Which is actually, just a plain black IKEA plastic box with freebie she’s put together that she swears will help with the fucking.

 

He lays out all the stuff he finds in there – none of which look particularly familiar. Does this come with a manual?

 

He has… a douche. For the cleaning up. But of course. Two bottles of lubricant, silicone-based. Okie-dokie. Multiple packs of condoms of various textures. And… butt plugs in three different sizes. Fantastic.

 

Very useful, he concurs.

 

He downs the last drops of his beer. Let’s get started, then.

 

* * *

 

He arrives at Steve’s apartment earlier than intended that evening. Dialing “3490” into the keypad is all muscle memory by now, and Steve’s given him a set of keys so he doesn’t have to go digging under the flower pots and alarm one of those well-meaning neighbours. It’s only about five-ish, so there’s still an hour or so before Steve gets home.

 

His asshole still feels raw after an hour plugged. He assumes it’s going to fade away after a while… practice makes perfect, they say.

 

Tony thinks he can do some housekeeping. He’s utterly useless in the kitchen, but he can manage some sweeping and mopping. Easy peasy, right? The house is already pretty tidied up to begin with.

 

He labours around the hall like he’s been paid to do it, gives the throw pillows a good fluff, dust the stainless steel robot that Steve’s placed on top of the TV cabinet. He has to tiptoe to reach for it, and hisses as the butt plug shifts inside him.

 

He should work on something tamer.

 

He goes back to wiping dust off the bookshelf with disinfectant and straightening up a pile of books, whereupon they all come crashing to the floor as his soapy fingers give way. Tony swears as per usual, and bends over to pick up all the pieces of papers that have flown out of these books – oh, the torture of having to bend over so low… – which aren’t exactly books, in fact. They are clear folders, and whatever he’s picking up – and simultaneously soiling with suds – happen to be old newspaper cuttings and washed out photographs.

 

Old childhood pictures maybe? A baby Steve Rogers taking a bath? His eighth birthday party? Something embarrassing he can ask Steve about later and swear to never live it down –

 

They’re all of men in uniforms dated to the late 90’s. Steve mentioned he was on a tour, wasn’t he? Kosovo, 1997 if he remembers it right. This could be the people he served with. Steve is in almost every one of them. Nobody’s smiling – given the context, they probably needed something more potent than “say cheese”. Steve himself appears grim, but Tony recognises those brilliant blue eyes anywhere, anytime. Irises that reflect hope. Hope that this thirty something Steve Rogers still harbours despite having witnessed firsthand how wrong mankind and this good earth can be.

 

The fifth photograph Tony studies almost make his heart flatline. There’s only one man featured, and he isn’t even looking at the camera. Something like a ninja shot taken when the subject least expects it. The man’s hair is cropped shorter, but the features are familiar. Sharp nose, eyes that look much warmer than Tony remembers watching onscreen, with a kooky grin to match. A red star tattoo adorns his left bicep. Tony flips the photo over and reads the black, fountain-penned scribble in two glances.

 

_James Buchanan Barnes. Kosovo, 1997. 3 rd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 2nd Infantry Division. The star to guide us home._


	59. Chapter 59

“I’m on way my back, Tony. Are you there yet?”

 

“Yeah. Been here since five-ish.”

 

“You clocked out earlier again?”

 

“Technically, I’m still working…”

 

“I don’t mean to interrupt – I’ll see you in twenty, all right?”

 

The Winter Soldier. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. It has always been the same guy.

 

Tony was quickly making copies of select Polaroids and newspaper cuttings with his phone, when it buzzed with Steve’s name flashing across the screen. That gave him quite a scare. Guilty conscience kicking in perhaps? And he finishes up his snooping by replacing everything back how he remembers them, and takes heart in the fact that he's getting closer to his goal.

 

But that can wait. Just one more night.

 

Tony sits awkwardly on the softest spot on the couch that he finds. He has a plan, a pretty well concocted one if he can say so himself, and he’s had another can of beer. Just to get himself into the groove… not that he’ll chicken out the last minute, he just needs to up the white noise in the back of his head a bit. He wants this. He wants Steve to have this.

 

Feels like the right fucking time after all, pun intended in its fullest glory.

 

It’s either this, or he thinks he’ll start crying again.

 

He puts his beer down and picks up the smallish black box he’s propped against the fruit basket. Remember the very first gift Steve gave him not so long ago? He pulls the blasphemous thing out and tries the start button. Yep, still works. It vibrates comfortably in his palm, and Tony places it next to the beer can and sees it do a little jig on the table.

 

He’s been trying to get hard on his own the past half an hour or so. Maybe it’s the foreign intrusion up his ass that’s making it difficult.

 

He pulls his zip down and caps his cock with the Cobra Libre dry. It’s on max vibration and it feels kind of bad, honestly, but he leans into his chair and closes his eyes. He can do this, come on… he gets it up every morning without meaning to since puberty, this is no different…

 

He thinks of Steve. Of the first time they met in Starbucks. How they were testing waters back then, not quite sure what the other’s ulterior intentions were – if any – how Steve made him shower in front of him. The first time Steve laid hands on him in the car, in the park. The first time Steve ordered him to jack himself off in the pool. The first time Steve acquainted him to toys.

 

Steve Rogers, the man he came out of the closet for. Steve who puts everyone else before him. Who chooses to see only the best in people, and never gives up on them. He’s everything Tony isn’t, everything Tony aspires to be. How it feels like being with Steve right now? It’s something like standing a little off centre at a specific angle, shoulder to shoulder and holding hands, only Tony has to bear with the horrendous scarring on Steve’s back that he keeps hidden from the world.

 

Tony tries so hard.

 

The door knob jingles and Tony sees shadows flitting through the gap.

 

“Tony? Can you get the door please, I have groceries…”

 

He’s wonderful at taking care of the household, too. Can Steve ever do anything wrong? Like forgetting to put detergent in the washing machine after loading the laundry? Or wearing the wrong match of socks to work?

 

“Yeah, give me a sec.”

 

He wants to be of some use to Steve. He wants to contribute.

 

“Hey,” Steve’s nose is slightly pinkish. His eyes crinkle at the sight of Tony.

 

“Hey, you. What’s for dinner?”

 

“You know what? After this convention is over, I’m teaching you another skill.”

 

“Double yes if it’ll make me rich.”

 

“You’re learning how to cook, Tony. You need to learn how to feed yourself properly.”

 

“… I have you for that.”

 

“I should consider charging you for each meal.”

 

“I’ll pay in this currency.” Tony pulls the grocery bag out of Steve’s arm before pulling Steve himself through the door. With privacy restored, he reels Steve into a kiss, long and slow… and tows Steve into himself as he leans against the wall.

 

“Check me out.”

 

“I can smell alcohol on your breath. Have you been drinking? I thought you said you were working?”

 

“Not nearly enough. Come on,” Tony grabs Steve by the wrist and guides it to his waist. “Feel me up.”

 

“Tony –”

 

Oh God, he doesn’t have the patience for this. He shoves Steve’s hand lower – Steve’s resisting, though not alarmingly much – past his crotch, to which he grinds into because that pressure? Of Steve’s fingers cupping him? He’d have thrusted non-stop into the hand but there’s more, there’s more he wants to show Steve. So he guides the hand lower – he stands with his legs further apart – and…

 

“ _Jesus_ , Tony.”

 

“Feel it?”

 

“You’re definitely drunk. All right? I’m making you coffee.”

 

“Don’t go.”

 

Tony rests his forehead fully on Steve’s shoulder. He's heating up in the face because, again and again, Steve’s right. It's not about the rejection. It's not even about the shame. It's messy - the repressed guilt, anger, frustration, _confusion_ – it’s wrong, and Tony wants to solve it with sex.

 

He’s an idiot.

 

Steve folds his arms across Tony’s back while Tony holds his limply by his sides. And Steve doesn’t even ask what’s wrong. He stays there. Be there.

 

He’s the world most idiotic idiot.


	60. Chapter 60

“Look at me,” Steve coaches. “I want to see you.”

 

Tony eases himself off Steve but keeps his gaze low on the ground instead. He does flinch a bit when Steve thumbs across the underside of his eyes – Steve’s just checking, he knows they’re dry, because he can clearly read the label on that packet of frozen peas jutting out of the grocery bag.

 

Steve cups him firmly on either side of his cheeks. “Coffee. Can you walk?”

 

Only then Tony scrunches his forehead and looks up. “’Course I can. Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“How long have you had that in you?”

 

“Uh,” That does make his ears flame up a bit. “Three hours?”

 

“Come on.”

 

Steve takes Tony by the hand – which is silly, because the last time Tony held someone like that it was for a prank he played on Pepper, in _elementary_ school. It gets sillier when Steve grabs a throw pillow from the couch on their way to the kitchen. He pushes Tony into a chair after settling said pillow on the seat.

 

His butt is golden, thanks.

 

In under ten minutes, Tony has himself a mug of coffee and some leftover chicken pie – so Steve isn’t allergic to frozen fast food after all – and they sit like that, side by side, knees kind of touching.

 

Tony prods his pie moodily and stews.

 

Then, Steve closes his hand over Tony’s. His heart clenches somewhat, but it doesn’t stop him from abusing his food until Steve gives him a gentle squeeze. He lets the fork clang against the plate.

 

He’s done. _It’s done_. He wants to drive home and sleep the rest of the night away.

 

Steve hikes his shirt up and presses Tony’s palm against his left hip bone.

 

“After the show, Bucky brought me to his apartment,” Steve starts, and Tony follows his eye line, low, to where their hands are resting atop the red, five-pointed star tattoo. “Which I think the organisation he belongs to is sponsoring. I doubt he’s still staying there,” he adds, just as the question bubbles on Tony’s lips. “I was given my own room. Some sense of privacy. Clothes. Food. I didn’t see him at all on my first day. My second day there though,” Steve squeezes Tony’s fingers again, “they branded me with this. A red star, just like the one he has on his arm. They wanted it identically sized. Bucky wanted it almost inconspicuous. He said, it didn’t matter how extensive it was, I was already theirs. Funnily enough, this helped. A lot.”

 

Tony shakes his head and looks away.

 

“This brand… somehow _warded_ others away. Most of the time, anyway. Apparently, Bucky has quite the uh, _temperament._ And influence. I believe he’s somewhere deep in the circle with quite a grip on the organisation. I told you, Tony. They’re structured. Ubiquitous. You don’t want to tangle yourself with power like that.

 

“Anyway, everything else was I suppose, on par with what you’d expect with a ‘deal’ like that. I’d never Subbed for anyone before, and the change in dynamics was a bit disorienting. But it was easy – taking it. I still believe the man I know from Kosovo is still in there. You can’t strip that away, no matter what –”

 

“I find that difficult to digest, I’m sorry,” Tony scoffs openly. “I saw the vids, Steve. I know what he did to you at N & N.”

 

Steve sighs, and Tony feels his hair flutter with it. “It’s not like that, Tony.”

 

“At least call it how you see it,” he bites back. “Own it, Steve! You can’t let that hover over you forever!”

 

“There is nothing to – everything was consensual.”

 

Tony clenches his teeth. The gravity of Steve’s admission – it sounds like something that should’ve _come up_ immediately – what is he supposed to make of the information right now? “I feel like I want to turn you upside down and fucking shake you until I get _everything_ out of you, you know that?”

 

“I offered you nothing because I wanted you to leave it.” Steve takes another deep breath. “The first time we trained – on the third day – it was brutal, it was a red ten minutes in.”

 

“Red?”

 

“I had to ask him to stop.”

 

“Bet he did.”

 

“He did.” Steve pauses, letting it sink in. “We didn’t do much the fourth day. He had a meeting that afternoon.” And Tony perks up a little. “He was careful whenever he had people over. They spoke in another room farthest from mine, kept the doors closed, their voices low.”

 

“If I show you facial composites, will you be able to identify them?”

 

Steve shakes his head.

 

“Steve, you saw Stane’s photos. It’s not just one man.” Steve should know what he means. “Tell me it was some – some kind of act, for some photoshoot –”

 

“Nothing unexpected, I suppose,” Steve shrugs. “I was willing. Unpleasant. But I was fine with it.”

 

“Shit, Steve… sometimes I don’t know what to think of these – these, kinks of yours. Is that what this is?”

 

“I said I was OK with it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

 

“What the hell is that supposed to _mean_?”

 

“It’s just sex, Tony. This human body…” Steve flexes his arms and studies them with sudden interest, “Just flesh and blood, there are worse ways to violate it.” He clasps his hands over his knees again. “There are things beyond understanding. Bucky is gone, I have to accept that. He’s made his bed, and we’re on opposite sides of the law. He knows that. But I’m not going to chase after a ghost and turn a blind eye to what I have in front of me.

 

“There’s no easy way to go about this. It’s not me who’s still hung up on my past. It’s Maria.” Steve looks sharply at Tony. “It’s you. I’m saying this again: I’m fine. I’m OK, I’m still here, with you. _But can you do the same?_ ”

 

Tony rubs a hand across his face.  “… There’s no easy way to go about this, huh?”

 

Steve smiles faintly.

 

Since when is anything ever easy?


	61. Chapter 61

“You should’ve stopped them,” Tony shakes his head. “It’s wrong.”

 

Steve looks away and says nothing, though Tony hears the growl of frustration all the same.

 

“Should’ve escalated it. Called the cops when you knew they were trouble. Or when you were held there at his place. Or when they brought you back to N & N. So many _openings_ –”

 

“I wanted to save him.” Steve picks his mug up and walks to the sink. He might as well tape a we’re-done-talking-here to his back as he turns away from Tony. “I thought I could.”

 

“You thought wrong, then.”

 

Steve freezes the moment those words leave his mouth, and he immediately wishes he could take it all back. Then, Steve starts washing his mug with perhaps a tad too much vigour, suds splashing against the adjacent counter.

 

Good job, Tony. Good job.

 

Tony folds his arms over the table top and finally shoves pie into his mouth – it tends to do less collateral damage when it’s filled with food – when he notices there’s something odd with the fridge. Steve doesn’t cover it with magnets or Post-It notes like Tony does, because Steve doesn’t travel for pleasure or requires frenetic reminders to run his life like Tony does.

 

Tonight however, there is a pompous-looking A4-sized paper stuck to it under a plain magnetic chip.

 

Steve is still wrestling his dishes into obedience with a sponge and lemon-scented detergent, so Tony squints at the pompous-looking letterhead, and his lower jaw promptly drops.

 

It’s the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.

 

Tony glances in Steve’s direction again. What has Steve gotten himself into now? What does the ATF want with him?

 

_The transition of office from the Sacramento Police Department (SPD) to the Bureau is expected to be completed by the end of December 2016, overseen by both Chiefs of Staff…_

_An official reply to this appointment is expected no later than two weeks from the date of issuance…_

_… shall be conducted at the field office in Los Angeles, California._

 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Steve says suddenly as he swipes the rest of Tony’s dishes, not at all surprised that he’s caught Tony reading his letter without permission.

 

“Is that –”

 

“The letter just came in yesterday. I had a talk with my Chief this afternoon, just to make sure. It’s legit.” Steve pulls the letter free from the clutch of the magnet and hands it over to Tony, who proceeds to reading the thing in its entirety, twice _._ “I’m taking up the offer.”

“… Wow.” Satisfied, Tony slaps the paper down onto the table where his pie was at just half a minute ago. “This is a _promotion_ , Steve.”

 

“If you want to put it that way. It’s more of a complete switch in responsibilities and jurisdiction.”

 

“There’s never a doubt you’d progress upward – by the natural order, of course. What is it usually, after Lieutenant? Captain, isn’t it? I always thought Captain Rogers has a nice ring to it.”

 

“… You seem more excited about this than I do.”

 

“Now you’re _Special Agent_ Steve Rogers. After all the talking smack about the FBI… What goes around comes around.”

 

“I do _not_ talk smack about the FBI.”

 

Then, Tony’s grin falters by the minutest degree. “You’ll be working in LA once this is official, aren’t you? If you’re not already jetting across the country.”

 

Steve puts away the last fork on the drying rack. He turns around. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, too.”

 

“… I’m not five. This is important. And if you have to go…” Tony waves his hand in a by-all-means gesture.

 

“We can talk about this tomorrow.”

 

Steve takes a step closer until he’s leaning over Tony, enveloping them both in lemony fragrance.

 

“Why? Now is a good time as any.”

 

“May I?” Steve rubs the tip of his nose against Tony’s, a small smile playing on his lips.

 

“May you… cook prawn dumplings for dinner tomorrow?”

 

“May I kiss you?”

 

Tony raises his eyebrows at that. He doesn’t do old-fashioned, first off. It’s weird, it’s pretentious. He _does_ kiss Steve anyway – it’s a crime not to – and pretends Steve hasn’t treated him like a dame, because if he dwells on it too long, he thinks he will chuck an orange at Steve’s head just to have him regain some senses.

 

Or maybe, it’s Tony who needs to regain _his_ senses. Steve slips his tongue in, and he holds Tony in place with a vice grip about the shoulder. His free hand scrabbles about the collar, and it’s only after the third button comes undone that Tony realises what Steve is doing. Steve’s hand creeps in and caresses the crevice of his chest, and he squirms in his seat. There’s some shivering and moaning – embarrassing stuff that makes his own ears spout steam – and he grips Steve tighter about his elbow, before he completely loses it and parts his thighs.

 

An invitation. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.

 

Steve breaks off and worries Tony’s jugular with his teeth. Tony is _not_ familiar with this sort of display – Steve has never been this eager, but it’s this exact unfamiliarity that’s fanning his growing needs.

 

His back arches as Steve cups him through the pants.

 

“Bedroom. Now.”


	62. Chapter 62

Their mouths never leave one another even as Tony wraps his legs about Steve’s waist and be carried into the bedroom. The jostles that accompany Steve’s every step bump the butt plug deeper into him – _one two one two_ like a really perverse cha-cha routine – and he groans audibly as Steve lowers him onto the bed.

 

“Does it hurt?” Steve spares him a once over as he tugs his shirt over his head.

 

“No,” Tony fumbles with his buttons. Too many buttons. “Come here.”

 

Steve joins him by the pillows and they renew their kissing. Round two, _ding ding_! This is serious business here. This is a battle to the death – a bit of grappling, thighs wrestling for bed space, biting that’s just begging to leave marks – a battle Steve often backs down from if Tony parades the slightest attempt at control. When there’s no contract, no oath, it’s almost as if Steve’s _coaxing_ Tony to take the reins. This is their arena. This very bed.

 

Trust begins here.

 

Then, some fair amount of thrusting, too.

 

“Pants. Off. Now.”

 

Steve undoes his with ease and before he helps pull Tony’s loose. He’s gone commando on purpose, and there it is, that look of bridled hunger on Steve that Tony can only reciprocate with his trademark shit eating grin.

 

“You look like you’d found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

 

“And you look…” Tony chuckles as Steve gestures at his plugged entrance. “I really have to ask. _What_ in the world gave you the idea…” Steve struggles to find his word, and chooses to lean down and snuggle the length of Tony’s erection instead.

 

“Whoa – OK…” Tony lifts a leg to rest it over Steve’s shoulder. “I wanted you to – to gain something from our, uh, recreation… I wanted to return the favour –” Steve wraps his mouth over the head, and slowly, sucks away at the flesh and the rest of Tony’s coherency. “Together,” he gasps. “I want you to have this.”

 

Steve releases him and straightens up somewhat. “Sex isn’t what I’m looking for when I'm with you.”

 

“I want it,” he reaches out for Steve’s forearm. “For us. But if this isn’t the right time –”

 

Steve grips Tony about the knee that’s propped on his shoulder and reels it in, dragging Tony lower onto the bed. It takes all but three seconds for Tony to realise what’s gently _pushing_ against the flat side of the butt plug.

 

Steve’s eyes, a dark navy in the last moments of sunset, pin Tony just as well into the bed. “If you’ll have me…” Steve thrusts again, this time with purpose, and Tony exhales shakily as Steve leaves a trail of precum on the exposed plastic base.

 

“It’s my first time,” Tony blurts out matter-of-factly, and Steve laughs. “Bet you wanna know how I taught myself all the tricks.”

 

“Memorising the Kama Sutra isn't going to prepare you for the real thing.”

 

“Eh… who needs a bunch of old scriptures when you have Maria at your disposal.”

 

“… I’m not sure I want to know what comes next. _Maria_?”

 

“I asked Maria for some uh, _guidance_ … and she gave me this starter pack. It’s got all the stuff I don’t ever want to say the names out loud, one of them is _in_ me, obviously.”

 

And to Tony’s utmost horror, Steve drops Tony’s leg and scoots over to the edge of the bed, and _walks to the door._ No, no, no – nothing else is more important and _urgent_ than _this,_ all right? Not even if a bunch of aliens open up a wormhole in the sky and rain outer space-nuclear on New York, _all right_?

 

“Where’re you going?”

 

“… Not going to take you bareback, Tony.” And the implication of that statement shoots right up Tony’s prick. “Be right back. I think I have some condoms in the bathroom.”

 

“My laptop bag on the couch. Search the front pocket. Maria gave me everything under the sun – every texture, flavour, I don’t know. Go pick one.”

 

He’d love to follow Steve on his little treasure hunting but his hole is getting way too stretchy… could be the anticipation, could be prolonged duress. Whatever. He needs Steve to be here, with him, on him, _now._

 

And when Steve is finally with him, on him – he finds himself a little bit too tense, too quiet. Which of course, sets off all kinds of alarm because out of character is no joking matter.

 

“Breathe, Tony. We can’t continue if your body doesn’t cooperate.”

 

He breathes in and out, just like how Steve instructs him to, and for a full minute he is fine, until Steve starts pulling at the butt plug.

 

“Ease up. I need to remove this.”

 

This isn’t as easy as he thought it would be. Though it’s a tad too late to realise this, but Jesus Christ, he’s got pissed poor command over his own body, hasn’t he? To his defense, these are lesser used muscles so… it’s quite unfair to ask his anus to tie shoelaces for him.

 

After having that thing up in him for three hours, Tony kind of misses the old buddy as it slips past his sphincter.

 

“Have you washed up down here?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Lubricated yourself?”

 

“… Yeah.” How can Steve not _see_ how generous he was with the lubrication? He can feel the warm residue ooze out of it.

 

“OK. Relax.”

 

Tony observes Steve pulls the rubber over his cock – nothing fancy, probably the most generic out of Maria’s eclectic options – and coats it with the same lubricant Tony used on himself earlier. That’s a lot of splish-splashing. This is going to be fine –

 

“Tony,” he hears his name sail over Steve’s breath, “God…”

 

And Steve presses his hip forward.


	63. Chapter 63

Sex is…

 

Tony gulps air in quick bursts, and then he’s not because Steve is slowly sliding in again. That’s how it is for the first three hours or so, see-sawing between Steve pushing and him freezing, or Steve freezing and him freaking out. An awkward turn-based strategy game pivoting on mounting frustrations – and it takes him just as much effort not to mentally check out.

 

“Is it painful?” Steve asks that one time he decides to clench up and be made aware that he’s really taking up another man’s dick in his ass. He looks past Steve’s elbow at the full body mirror and sees Steve’s muscly back straining with effort working his way into an anatomical section that Tony’s sure not intended for this purpose.

 

“Tony, I need you to tell me if it hurts.”

 

Sex is… decidedly, not sexy.

 

“You sure feel a lot bigger than you look.”

 

“… Am I hurting you?”

 

“No.” Tony relaxes his grip on Steve’s arm. Look at that, he’s left a big, red handprint there. Give him another hour, the baby will soon be on its way. “It’s… gimme a minute. Trying to get used to this. Are we – uh, how far in are you?”

 

“Halfway in.”

 

Tony drops his head dramatically on the pillow. “I’m so sorry. This sucks, doesn’t it?”

 

Steve collects his half-flaccid cock in one hand and pumps. It doesn’t take long for it to renew his desires, but when Steve shifts again…

 

“Tell me to stop if it hurts.”

 

“What?”

 

Steve pulls out, and that doesn’t hurt. Well, his _feelings_ are – now Steve thinks he can’t handle it – until Steve slides back in, to that same shallow depth, and he repeats it, short and quick.

 

“OK?”

 

Steve’s hand on him parallels the rhythm. It’s not bad, not good either – this is still too weird to derive pleasure from, believe it or not – and his cock gives a slight stir when Steve pauses and leans down on him that their chests are flushed, their heartbeats resonating through their bones.

 

“I care… so much, for you, Tony,” Steve pants into his ear. “So much…”

 

Tony folds his legs around Steve’s waist and draws him in. He does wince when Steve accidentally bucks his hip, and there’s a bit of resistance, and a short sharp jolt in his spine when he stretches up to meet Steve in a kiss. Their breaths meld as Steve resumes his thrusting – still in those awkwardly short and shallow pushes and pulls – until he pulls out completely, gives himself a few good tugs and comes.

 

Tony is blown away. He’ll never forget this, how Steve is kneeling before him, with his sweat-beaded forehead and control completely thrown out of the window as he climaxes. 

 

“Your turn,” Steve says suddenly as Tony is admiring the indentation in Steve’s butt cheek.

 

“Like a round two? Nuh uh, I’m good – and unless you’re hiding a second dick somewhere –”

 

Tony has never been more thrilled whenever Steve graces his cock with lips and tongue and warm, wet cavern in a display of mind-blowing agility. Doesn’t matter how unconducive the environment is – Steve had blown him when he was strapped down to a coffee table after a bone-tiring day, in a freaking restaurant in the middle of lunch service – Tony’s downstairs brain is always rearing to go.

 

The mouth around his cock is wonderful. The finger that’s creeping up his gaping entrance, though –

 

“Steve –”

 

Steve hums around him and continues with his prodding. Tony feels fingernails scrapping past, but after the initial resistance it’s pretty much a walk in the park – it’s just a finger, stop wussing around –

 

Tony curls sideway – completely unintentional – and accidentally smacks his knee against the side of Steve’s ribs. There’s something happening in him, weirder than weird and he feels Steve quickening, both tongue and fingers working him all the way up –

 

“Oh, _fuck_ –”

 

He doesn’t mean to blow his load into Steve’s mouth without warning, or thrash about so violent he thinks he’s kneeing Steve in the sides again –

 

“Tony?”

 

Shit, what was that? Feels like getting run over by a freaking freight train.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

It’s _too_ bright, it’s burning his retina – and he’s only able to make out the outline of Steve’s face with a lot of blinking and squinting.

 

“Why did you turn on the lights for?”

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“Like a million dollar.” Tony sits up and hears his joints creak. “I’m too old for this.” Cracking up another grin, he says, “Do that again. With this,” he nudges at Steve’s limp cock with his toe. “We’ll be fucking till the cows come home.”

 

By the next hour, they’re tucked under clean sheets and ready for bed – in fact, Steve is already snoring his way into REM sleep – leaving Tony feeling kind of wistful that after all the preparations, they’ve only had one _attempt_ and another blowjob to wrap things up. There’s nothing wrong with it, of course. It’s all still fine and dandy – Tony sighs as he turns to face Steve – because guess what, this is only the beginning.

 

He is only beginning to love Steve Rogers.


	64. Chapter 64

“Hey, Tony! Keep showing up at work at this rate and I’ll have to ask boss-man if you’re still with the Bee or not.”

 

“Good to see you, too, Rhodey.”

 

Strangely enough, Tony _does_ miss the routine of clocking in and out, busting ass 9-to-5 like everyone else. Having a chat by the water cooler, catching up with Rhodey and the guys. That sort of things. He’s spent most of the week cooped up at his own place by day, and Steve’s by night. The isolation is starting to take a toll on his psyche, and it does feel somewhat awkward looking at these familiar faces in the eye. Every how-are-you feels punctilious.

 

“A salmon roll for your thought, Tony.”

 

“Huh, you’re still here?”

 

Tony drops his bag into a vacant chair and grabs his mug – look at the inch-thick layer of dust on this thing, he really hasn’t been around in a while, has he?

 

“You don’t sound like your normal, hyperverbal self today. Is something the matter?”

 

Tony spares Rhodey an annoyed look and goes off hunting for the water cooler. That hunk of water case is still in the same corner, is it? Or has the entire office gone through some sort of makeover in his short absence? Because it sure does feel different around here.

 

“Come on, man. It’s not cool giving your brother a cold shoulder after – Tony.” And Rhodey suddenly closes a hand over Tony’s bicep – and it is so ingrained in his subconscious that he deftly sidesteps Rhodey and deflects the offending hand. He’s dropped the guy on his ass once when he pulled the same stunt not so long ago, come on.

 

“Once bitten twice shy, Rhodey. Catch up.”

 

“You have a mark on your neck.” Rhodey points to a spot close to Tony’s collarbone. “Look here.” And he takes Tony by the shoulders, spins him around until they’re both facing a vanity mirror one of the lady colleagues has installed in the pantry. Tony doesn’t even have to tug at his collar to see what’s caught Rhodey’s interest; a dark red-bluish blemish that sends heat right up Tony’s face.

 

He has to ask Steve to be careful about leaving marks.

 

He looks up and sees Rhodey’s reflection in the mirror.

 

“You haven’t been yourself the last two months. We’re worried for you.”

 

Tony turns on his heels so he’s face to face with Rhodey himself. “I’m still my charming self, aren’t I?”

 

“Ever since you started working on that ridiculous four-week column on the BDSM community –”

 

“Oh, so now it’s ridiculous?”

 

“Let me tell you how it's like from here,” Rhodey grabs Tony by the shoulders again. “I saw welts on your wrists. Two weeks after, you told me you were drugged. For a while everything was fine, and I thought whatever it was, it’s gone. Then you stopped coming to work – I know you don’t have to anymore – and those photos you presented at the meeting, the new case you’re working on. Now, _this_ ,” Rhodey gives the hickey a condescending glare before redirecting it at Tony again. “Tell me, if you see what I see, how will you feel?”

 

“Rhodey…”

 

“You don’t have to go this alone. We can help.”

 

“What do you think is happening to me?”

 

“You want to know what I think?”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

Rhodey clinches even harder about his shoulders. “I think someone’s abusing you. I think she’s manipulating you, hurting you, and you’re afraid of reaching out to us.”

 

Oh, Mary, Jesus and Joseph.

 

Tony checks the clock in the pantry and sees that it’s ten minutes to his meeting with the boss. Rhodey is still watching him like a hawk, and for a split second Tony considers telling Rhodey a joke about alpacas he heard over the radio on the way to work.

 

“You’re a good man, Rhodey,” Tony says instead, tapping genially on his arm. “I promise I’ll explain everything. At lunch. My treat. Whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

“Hmm, you’re handling this better than I thought.”

 

Tony places another yellow plate on the top of his stack. Here comes the _unagi_ … it’s the house’s specialty, his guilty pleasure and damn it if he has to empty his bank account for them and freeload off of Steve till the next paycheck.

 

Tony sees succulent, perfectly pink salami slices approaching on the conveyor belt. Anytime now, Rhodey is going to display his amazing sushi-hunting reflexes. He’s going to snap at these plates, these poor babies are nothing but sitting ducks in the presence of Sushi King James Rhodes. Anytime now, Rhodey. The salami slices are coming, coming… and going, going… and gone, gone…

 

“Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning?”

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“That you weren’t interviewing people for stories, that you were an _active_ participant. And now you’re dating this guy?”

 

“… I thought it’s the gay part that’ll get to you.”

 

Rhodey chugs green tea. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

 

“It’s embarrassing? It’s not exactly a lunch-friendly topic, is it? Now I’m telling you over one, and I bet you just lost your appetite for the best slice of marinated eel –”

 

“He could’ve hurt you.” Rhodey picks up his chopsticks to stab at seaweeds. “You saw the photos. You _presented_ them. They do that sort of things – who’s to say you’re not next?”

 

The piece of eel on the plate is the last piece Tony has before he calls for the bill.


	65. Chapter 65

By the time Tony puts a foot through the door, the tell-tale aroma of dinner fit for kings waft through the hall… Tony’s nostrils are hooked and it draws him right into the kitchen, and there he is, the Master Chef responsible for putting together this amazing spread, reading a book by the kitchen island. Steve glances up and smiles, as warm as the evening sun.

 

“You went to the office?”

 

“Boss called for a meeting.” Tony drops his bag and swoops in for a quick peck on Steve’s cheek. “That smells lovely.”

 

“It’s something I cobbled up on the fly. We’re running low on groceries.”

 

“I can do a quick run to the local store. There’s one by the corner, right? What d’you need?”

 

“That store jacks up prices by twenty percent. There’s another one past the first junction…”

 

The oven dings and Steve attends to it, so Tony watches Steve from the distance, and wonders what act of ultimate kindness had he done in his past incarnation – if there is one – what angel has decided to perch on his shoulder and bless him with Steve. Somewhere along that line of thought, he finds his arms wrapped around Steve’s middle, his chest against Steve’s broad back, and he rests his chin on a shoulder.

 

“We’re going vegetarian tonight, because that’s all I’ve got in the fridge.”

 

“It’s good.”

 

“I see you went out for a fancier meal, earlier.”

 

Tony stirs and tilts his head. “Did you bug my underwear or something? I went out for sushi, but I haven't told you that.”

 

“I can still smell the sake on you.”

 

Tony lets go as Steve stretches to get some bowls. “You know what, you should join the K-9 unit. With a nose like that, you’ll out-sniff everyone on the team. You already have the puppy-eye looks down.”

 

“I worry,” Steve pours chicken broth into the tray he was using to bake vegetables and starts scrapping it with a ladle, “that you’d spent too much time working alone. Going back to the office might be good for you.”

 

“I don’t feel different, to be honest. But general consensus is, I am. Why’s that?”

 

“You haven’t been a pain in the neck for a while, maybe that’s it.”

 

* * *

 

Apparently, having an improved relationship – that is, more-than-fuck-buddies – with Steve means nothing when they’re back to operating within the Dominant/Submissive circle. Which is a shame, because had Tony known about this earlier, he wouldn’t have jumped Steve as he was getting out of the shower. He wouldn’t have thrown that stupid karate chop in Steve’s face and be swooped off his legs in the next three milliseconds. Steve hadn’t anticipated that at all, which meant he went full-on Master Yoshi on Tony’s ass and slammed him into the wall.

 

“ _Jesus Christ_ – Tony, I’m so sorry!”

 

Tony was positive he'd punctured his lungs and broken an arm since everywhere below his elbow felt numb.

 

“It’s only a bruised humerus. You’ll be fine.”

 

Afterwards, Steve asked for _that kind of_ permission – which he granted, and he let himself be tied down to the coffee table – a limb to one of the table’s own. The rice-filled containers are back in the play, arranged haphazardly over his torso.

 

“I hope the actual sushi arrangement looks better than this, Steve. This looks like a Rorscharch test, I swear to God.”

 

“Focus, Tony.”

 

Steve turns a page of his book. That’s cold. Not even a passing glance.

 

“Hey, I heard this over the radio this morning. What do you call alpacas taking over the world?” Tony sees the edge of Steve’s lips tip upward. “An alpacalyse!” And all eight containers on his body wobble with him. “Come on, Steve, it’s a little funny –”

 

He breaks off with a small groan. That’s max vibration, Steve promised not to put it on max –

 

See, it was supposed to be just the ropes and the containers. That ridiculous rubber cock cage made a comeback because after the karate chop, Tony jumped Steve again just as they were exiting the bedroom.

 

Yeah. He didn’t know what came over him.

 

Steve’s house, Steve’s rules, all right? If Steve thinks these little stunts should not go unpunished, then they shouldn’t. What would Steve want him to do? Fertilise the petunias? Change the curtains?

 

“Fifteen minutes more,” Steve calls out. Tony breathes in deeply, once, and grips the table leg.

 

“OK, dial down on the –” he trails away again, feeling precum leak from the tip and a violent pulse in his lower pelvis. “I won’t last fifteen minutes.”

 

To his relief, Steve heeds his pleas. And it gets even better – the cage comes completely off, and the ropes cuffing his right arm to the table soon follows. So that’s it for the night, Tony guesses. About time.

 

Only, that’s all Steve’s done. His other hand and both legs are still chained to the coffee table.

 

“You want me to untie you?” Steve runs his finger along Tony’s bare erection. “Finish this yourself.”

 

“Oh, you got to be _kidding_ me.”

 

“Try me.”

 

He grips himself and pumps fervently, and though he’s rock hard – readier than ready – he finds it somewhat of a challenge to actually go over the cliff, so to speak… which is what Steve wanted when he campaigned for “a climax a day keeps the climax away” – it didn’t make sense, then. It’s starting to hurt even, and that can’t be good. He looks up and sees Steve watch him masturbating. Raptly. Steve the voyeur, always a turn on.

 

“Relax,” Steve’s callous palms rest over his thigh.

 

He slows down and stares right at Steve. Right at the bright blue eyes that have grown a shade softer. Just Steve. Not his Dom, his Master. Just, Steve.

 

Tony lurches and stills his hand as he ejaculates freely over himself and the coffee table. He remembers the ghost of Steve’s arms over his back, Steve’s lips over his. His fist tightens about his cock, and Steve carefully wipes the last trails of semen with tissue paper.

 

They’re slowly getting into that phase where words are not always necessary. It’s not magic, no mind-readings – Tony finds it hard to believe that an insensitive asshole like himself can ever be so in-tune with another being. Every flicker, every twist and turn Steve takes, he’s learning what they mean.

 

Slowly. Bit by bit.

 

Steve gives him a peck on the forehead and a sweeping check before loosening the remaining knots. Tony sits up, and lets Steve handle the clean up as he scratches the welts about his wrists.

 

It’s the easy quietness and companionship that makes it all seem right.

 

“So,” Tony pulls more tissue paper from the box and passes them to Steve, “what do you call it when alpacas sing?”


	66. Chapter 66

It’s rare for both of them to be at home so early. It’s only seven thirty and they’ve had dinner with a side of attitude and a quick training. It’s by far the most productive day Tony’s had this week. Steve has decided to feed his book a bookmark and watch TV with Tony, and the first sign of something’s not quite right is when the newscaster did a cover on a herd of alpacas having diarrhoea at the New York Zoo and Tony’s the only one laughing.

 

Tony bumps Steve’s knee with his. “Something on your mind?”

 

And Steve considers the question. _Actually_ considering it when Tony’s asked it on a perfectly perfunctory level.

 

“We’re closing the case on Stane.”

 

Tony’s smirk falls a little and he goes back to watching the weather forecast. “You’re still working on that?”

 

“We are. Were.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He said he didn’t spike your drink. He wasn’t even aware that you were drugged. It helps that he has prior complaints filed against him, so we got a warrant for his house, office and cars.” Steve pops a knuckle. “We didn't find anything incriminating. Then, we asked him about the assault.”

 

“No.” Tony takes the TV remote and turns the set off. “I didn’t lodge a report on that. There _isn’t_ a case. I’m not testifying against – don’t you remember my parting gift from that little piñata party? It’s not worth the risk.”

 

“I went down to the alley and there was a CCTV camera installed on the opposite block. It might’ve recorded the attack, so I asked the owner for the vids. Turns out, he was there working a shift when it happened,” Steve turns to Tony, “and he knew one of your attackers. We got a face and a name.”

 

“So you brought him down to the station, brought him coffee, had a chat… and he gave up Stane’s name. Just like that, huh?”

 

“He was… rather forthcoming with his employer’s identity. Strangely enough, he couldn’t identify Stane’s mugshot and voice sample.”

 

“Maybe they communicated with each other by other means. E-mails. Middle men.”

 

“There wasn’t sufficient evidence to confirm either allegations. We had to let them go. The orders just came in this morning.”

 

“Which is reasonable. You’ve done your best.”

 

Let bygone be bygone. Maybe… maybe some truths just aren’t worth pursuing.

 

* * *

 

“Sit here.”

 

“Why not do it in the bathroom? This is gonna be messy.”

 

“I turned on the heater. Come here.”

 

“…  Still pretty clever, I suppose.”

 

Tony pads on old newspapers strewn around the floor to where Steve is sitting, cross-legged by a footstool. Three steps after he sees a shallow box beside Steve, holding all the apparatus necessary for the procedure at hand. “So, the whole body?”

 

“The whole body.”

 

Awesome. Precisely why he’s here buck naked, fresh out of shower and puzzlingly enough, in the bedroom. Which is drier and warmer –  a welcomed change from the humidity of the bathroom. And spacious. Claustrophobia just isn’t appropriate when in the next moment, he’s about to get up close and personal with Steve’s razors. He bets Steve’s going to ask him to stay put for the next half an hour or so as he de-keratinise his fabulous person to a baby birthday suit.

 

“Don’t move. Don’t even scratch your nose.”

 

“Or, you can balance a fruit bowl on my head, see how much I've improved.”

 

“I don’t want to cut you.”

 

“That’s a real incentive there, Steve.”

 

Fifteen minutes in, Steve’s already done with the chest and armpits. Shaving cream dribbles over his laps as the razors scrape carefully across his stomach.

 

“It’s no trouble, you know,” Tony says as Steve rinses the blades, “I can do this myself.” Steve’s thumb presses into his lower abdomen. The folds of his skin tauten under the sweep of metal. Tony sighs, “It’s really happening this Saturday, huh?”

 

It’s already Thursday night.

 

“You’ll be fine, Tony.” One last swipe that stops right above the navel. “I’ll be with you, all the way.” Steve’s hand closes about his knee. “Open up.”

 

This is why he says he can do it himself.

 

Tony spreads his thighs and gives his prick a quick check and a scowl. “I thought it would’ve gone down after the training.” This is possibly the only time in his life he wished it’d _stay down._ “It’s got a mind of its own.”

 

“I can’t shave you like this.”

 

“Give me a minute. Alpacas and explosive diarrhoea… alpacas and explosive diarrhoea…” Tony starts chanting to himself, “I’m not making shit up. It was on the eight o’clock just now.”

 

If that imagery doesn’t work, there’s something seriously wrong with him, and that's all he's saying. Happily it does, and Steve asks Tony to hold his flaccid flesh down – good thinking – as the razors plough through dark pubic hair with exuberance.

 

“I still think I can do this my own.” Tony’s heart thumps as memories of sick alpacas get chased away by Steve’s trailing touches. He feels his cock rebelling against reason.

 

“You’ll nick yourself. You won’t be able to see a thing.”

 

“Mirrors?”

 

“Maybe. But not tonight.”

 

“Uh, Steve…”

 

He tried. It’s unreasonable to expect anything else when he has two pairs of hand messing around in his crotch area.

 

“Calm down. Just a bit more.”

 

Calm down? _Calm down?_ This calls for drastic measure. _Grandma eating cashew nuts with her dentures off… grandma eating cashew nuts with her dentures off…_

 

“You’re impossible,” Steve breathes, and suddenly, he’s lifted completely off his ass and Grandma vanishes in a puff of smoke as his back meets the smooth covers on Steve’s bed. “We’re done with that. Let’s do something else.”

 

Steve’s finger encircles the rim of his entrance.

 

“Tony?”

 

Tony holds onto Steve’s shoulders as every nervous impulse concentrate on the sensation down south, where Steve is still tracing the outline of his sphincter. There’s one or two experimental dips past the tight muscle – he gets it, he gets the message completely! – and he looks up into Steve’s eyes.

 

“If you don’t want it, I’ll stop.”

 

Steve gathers residual shaving cream from his lap and lathers some over his anus.

 

“All right,” Tony hikes his knee up. “Do it.”


	67. Chapter 67

Steve can make dead flowers come alive again. Tony honestly believes that.

 

Being with Steve is like suddenly jumping into a jeep and going off into the savanna. Never know what he's going to see and learn about. Tonight, he nudges the cap on his stamina reserve to a new high. It’s as if refractory periods don’t matter. Steve works on him with grace and patience – and he responds in ways that make Steve go a little bit crazy, a little bit hungry… so the fingers in him, yeah those two long digits sliding in and out, scissoring him open for the main event… Tony gives them a testing squeeze, and chuckles when Steve hisses near his ear.

 

“How long are you gonna beat around the bushes, Steve?”

 

“… OK, give me a minute.”

 

Seems like Steve has moved his pack of condoms from the bathroom into the nightstand’s drawer. Seems also like this recreation is stepping up into a habitual thing.

 

Tony drops his hand to his crotch and fumbles with his cock. Steve’s completely deforested this area. FYI it’s not really good for the ecosystem. Global warming and the sort. See, it’s already heating up around here. Tony grips the base of his cock and works on himself as Steve busies with the rubber – and he smirks when he catches Steve’s eyes, which automatically slide south to where all the fun is happening.

 

“Are you joining me, or am I gonna have to finish this myself?”

 

Tony’s lying on his back, once again, folded at the hips so his legs are resting against Steve’s shoulders. Here they go, he knows Steve’s aligning himself, they’ve done this once, they should be _going to town_ about now –

 

Tony gasps and throws his head into the pillow. There’s a flash of white in his vision and he plain _freezes_ – and Steve cups him urgently by the jaw.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he wheezes. He squeezes again, and he doesn’t know if he should cheer or scream his balls off. That’s a lot of Steve in him. “So eager.”

 

“… Stop squeezing. You’ll tear something.”

 

“Relativity, Steve. Have you gotten larger, or am I getting tighter?”

 

“There’s a lot less preparation tonight than before. Should I stop?”

 

Tony cuffs the side of Steve’s head with his knee. “Come on, move. Slowly.”

 

And what the hell, slowly doesn’t help. Tony clenches his teeth and lets Steve slide all the way in, lets rubber and flesh grate on each other at the slowest possible rate… it’s torture, and the only respite is Steve looking down on him with equal part of want and need. At least someone’s enjoying himself.

 

And to Tony’s surprise, before he knows it, he’s balls to balls with Steve. That sense of accomplishment is the best form of analgesia.

 

“Hmm, how do you feel?” Tony asks. He smirks again, and he hopes it comes across as confident, and flippant, maybe a pinch of arrogance – he needs Steve to stop looking like he’s accidentally stepped on a snail on the walkway.

 

“Good. You?”

 

“I’m not quite sure, actually. Better than before?” He lets Steve’s arms go and grabs either sides of his pillow for support. “OK. Continue.”

 

Steve takes him faster than the initial push, and his knuckles go paler by the minute. The pain is negligible by now, and that’s about the highlight of this late-night show. The bed creaks and quakes, and their bodies rock as one as Steve rams into him. Sexy? Tony regulates his breathing using Steve’s fucking as guidance – because it’s impossible to draw in breath when he gets drilled into the mattress, know what he’s saying? – and it becomes… perfunctory.

 

Yet, he doesn’t say a thing.

 

Steve’s timing is getting a little off, and the mounting discomfort Tony’s feeling in his tailbone tells him Steve’s going at it more forcefully – probably unintentional, but Tony isn’t made of glass, he can take this – and then, and then, and then –

 

“Tony…”

 

Tony feels Steve pulse inside him. And that does something crazy to his own cock that it’s back to full rigidity – he closes a fist over himself and pumps –

 

“ _Shit,_ Steve, _not yet –_ don’t pull out –”

 

He clamps down on Steve as he comes, and God he’s going to be so sorry about this in the morning – he sinks his teeth into Steve’s collarbone.

 

As they lay side by side, spent and utterly debauched, a stroke of revelation dawns on him. He knows how he’s going to end his book. He’s going to say, that this whole thing – life, relationships, being _human_ – is just so painful and messy and hard and worth it and all that stuff, and the only reason it works out in the end is if and when somebody... gives up. Make that sacrifice to keep them both going. It sounds as cheesy as a Quattro Formaggio and Fury can go fuck himself if he dislikes this epilogue. As he shifts his legs and savours the soreness that is his ass, back and legs, he knows those bullshits are right as rain. Took him half of a lifetime to finally get here.

 

Their contract works out because Steve has been so giving all the while.

 

Now, it’s his turn.

 

He seeks out Steve’s hand and interlace their fingers.

 

“What d’you say, we show those people a good time this Saturday? Together.”


	68. Chapter 68

Please excuse this quick interlude. It’s not always Tony gets to be put up as an exhibit. In fact, it’s almost never. He’s sweating, he’s going tachycardia, and he’s naked save for an oversized trench coat draping his shoulders.

 

It’s finally happening. They’ve trained for two weeks, all for the three hours of fun in Maria’s basement.

 

And Tony’s not ready.

 

“Calm down. You’re going to be fine.”

 

Tony hopes Steve will drive slower. Traffic is surprisingly clear for a Saturday evening. It usually takes at least half an hour to reach N & N from Steve’s place. Looks like it’s going to take half that time. Nothing like a good, smooth-going journey to start the night.

 

“What if people recognise me?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There could be all kinds of people attending. What if I know somebody?”

 

Last minute shit like this happens all the time. Like, five minutes before rolling out on a week-long driving trip, somebody forgot to fill the tank, or pack some extra clean undies, or get that cavity in the molar filled. There’s always something that throws a spanner in the works.

 

“Will a mask help?”

 

“Thank you,” Tony heaves a sigh of gratitude. He likes Steve like this, the problem solver he is. “A mask will definitely help.”

 

“… I don’t have one.”

 

“This isn’t the time to be a smart mouth, Steve.”

 

“How about a blindfold and a gag?”

 

The second best thing, actually, would be to turn the car around, right now.

 

“How about I make a funny face all night, hmm? That’ll make me unrecognisable, too.”

 

Traffic is a bitch. Which in this context means, non-existent. They reach the warehouse’s parking lot in five minutes, and Tony feels his balls shrink at the number of vehicles already parked on the ground. Steve has to circle the back area twice before he finds an empty square.

 

The handbrake creaks when Steve lifts it up, and the roar of the engine dies with it.

 

“Tony,” Steve comes to brace him around the elbow. “Permission.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Steve leans in, and meets Tony in a gently placed kiss.

 

“You’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you.”

 

“Never doubted that.”

 

Steve pulls the yellow collar from the glove compartment and undoes the clasp.

 

“Ready?”

 

And from then on, the maelstrom of fuck-this-shit-I-shouldn’t-be-doing-this just sort of dissipated. And he doesn’t mean it in a good, comforting way. Steve maintains a half-a-step behind him as they walk to the main entrance – _why_ the main entrance? – and all the worries he has about things that may go wrong, or someone calling him by name, they’re all gone, replaced by mounting self-awareness that he’s walking around in public, naked with only the trench coat affording him some cover, and the incessant reminder of his subservience to Steve about his neck.

 

“Remember the entry protocol?” Steve asks under his breath when the porch comes into sight.

 

“Security check at the front. Then, we go down to the basement and locate our table.”

 

The instructions are simple enough.

 

When they eventually round the block, Tony sees a medical booth set up under the tree not too far away. Two ambulances are parked just off the side of the gate, and there's a small group of people manning the gurneys and setting up IVs.

 

They aren’t kidding when they say they got everything covered.

 

“Good evening, Sirs.”

 

N & N’s royal guards at their service.

 

Steve hands them a piece of paper.

 

Speaking of which, Steve isn’t a tiny man by all standards, but standing in the immediate vicinity of the security guards – bouncers? – Maria’s hired for the event, Tony won’t be surprised if he sees cave trolls barging out of their pent at the first sign of trouble downstairs.

 

“Everything is in order. First door to the right, gentlemen.”

 

First door to the right is where they carry out the security checks. Steve didn’t tell him how the check is going to be done. Apparently, protocols differ year by year. So, Tony assumes it’s going to be like at the airport. Please-walk-through-the-gates, belts-phones-laptops-in-the-box. The usual.

 

There are several more heavy-duty guards standing around the room. One of them wave for Steve and Tony to come closer.

 

Airport stuff, no biggie.

 

“Remove your coat, Sir.”

 

… Yeah, no. He’s naked underneath.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Your coat. We need to make sure you’re not hiding anything under it.”

 

Tony unknots the sash around his waist. The buttons go next. He lets it part freely over his chest and there, have a good look at his family jewel.

 

“Sir, I need you to _remove_ your coat. You can hang it here.”

 

That’s how Tony finds himself standing in the midst of two strangers – Steve a silent presence behind him – stripped off of everything save for the collar, his legs parted and his arms stretched out. They don’t touch him yet, but wherever their eyes roam, goosebumps rise in their wake. They ask him to open his mouth, so he does, and they shine their flashlight in there for a good five seconds.

 

He's just done some scaling and polishing two months ago, by the way. They’re not going to find even a hint of cavity.

 

 _Then_ , they touch him.

 

It’s the regular pat-down, at first. He doesn’t understand it – he’s already naked, whatever they see is what they get, right? They go for his chest, his flanks… maybe it’s because of the invisible jacket he’s wearing, they’ve got to turn those can’t-be-seen pockets inside out, in case he’s hiding a see-through knife or something.

 

Then a pair of hands slide along the ridge of his inner thighs, and cup him firmly about his testicles.

 

“Jesus Christ! Do you mind –”

 

“Please endure the discomfort, Sir. We have to stick to the protocol.”

 

Some fucked-up protocol this is.

 

While this guy moves on to work on his bare legs, the other one wheels in a table and parks it before him.

 

And he orders, “Bend over, Sir.”

 

“Make me.”

 

“Tony.”

 

Steve’s going to take care of him, isn’t he?

 

Tony acquiesces. He grips the opposite corners of the table and hugs the table top, his chest flushed against the cool PVC surface.

 

“Spread your legs, Sir.”

 

He swears he hears gloves being snapped on.

 

Shit.

 

No pun intended.


	69. Chapter 69

“Relax. We’re only permitted to carry out visual inspections. Just to make sure you’re not concealing weapons or drugs in your orifices.”

 

Tony feels hands on his butt. Clinical. Impersonal.

 

“Ready, Sir?”

 

“… Yeah.”

 

True to their words, they don’t go beyond shining their flashlight into the butthole. Mighty uncomfortable, by the way. And while he lets the professional do their “protocols”, he distracts himself with surveying what little space he’s in for the security search.

 

He remembers the actual hall is especially spacious. But to afford privacy to individual parties, guests are shepherded into corners and curtains drawn around them to form a makeshift cubicle. Which are lousy at blocking out noises, unfortunately. The people that came in after them were ushered to the far end, but damn… are they a rowdy bunch.

 

“Hey, you wanna do something about that?” Tony points a finger at the source of commotion. “Your boys over there may need some backup.”

 

“Don’t worry about that. They got it under control. Please squat over this reflective plate, three times. Remain squatted for five seconds on your last one.”

 

He does the squats as they gawp at the mirror. Tony feels his cheeks burn and he counts three, four, five…

 

“Thank you for your co-operation, Sir. Next, please.”

 

Tony brushes aside the creak in his kneecaps as he stands up. “Next?”

 

 _Steve_ begins unbuttoning his dress shirt and shrugs it off till it falls to the floor. His hands drop to the buckle of his belt, and the chink of metal is all the more audible –

 

“Lieutenant Rogers?”

 

Tony spins around so hard his neck outcracks the knees. It’s the personnel who’s been cosying up his butt. _He’s_ looking at Steve like Steve’s just sprouts wings.

 

“Jesus Christ, it’s you. I didn’t – they didn’t say you’re coming back.”

 

Steve’s belt joins the discarded shirt on the floor. The sound of zippers being pulled down punctuate the silence.

 

“Oh, no. You don’t have to.” The personnel marches forward, and Tony moves before he’s consciously thinking about it. He anchors himself before Steve and holds an arm out, still in all his glory.

 

“Back up, big boy. No sudden movements, there’s no need for violence…”

 

The man’s attention drops to the collar about his neck. Tony rolls his eyes. Now they’re going to give him trouble for stepping out of line – what is it again, about Subs not being allowed to initiate contact with other people? The event hasn't even started, and he's getting a demerit already. Well, guess what? He’s going to tell them a piece of his mind - 

 

“Tony, that’s enough. Hold my clothes for me.”

 

“What?” Steve shoves his pile into Tony’s chest. Still warm with body heat. Before he can protest, Steve’s already taking his place by the table, legs parted, arms stretched side to side. “Let’s get on with it.”

 

“You’re… we don’t –”

 

“You’re just doing your job. And it’s an important one, so don’t start cutting corners now. Come on.”

 

The two guards share an unsure look before swallowing thickly, “Yes, Sir.”

 

Steve goes through the procedure as wordless as Tony was rife with gripes. They pat Steve down leaving no skin untouched – as they did him – but when it comes to the testicle grab, it looks like it’s torture _for them._

 

“Bend over the table, Sir.”

 

Steve assumes the same position Tony did not too long ago, and they snap fresh gloves over their hands. This time, one of them walks over to stand before Steve, and braces his knees as he drops into a half-squat, just so he’s eye-level with Steve. “I want to thank you for what you did for us in 2012. My cousin was there, and he saw guns. There were people guarding the exits and he and his friends honestly thought that was gonna be it, you know? I’m sorry they never caught those sons of bitches that took you –”

 

“I’ll do it again if I have to,” Steve interjects calmly. “It’s all right.”

 

Then, Steve is walking towards Tony, who hasn’t moved an inch he might as well be a Greek bust in a gallery.

 

“My clothes.”

 

Tony returns them wordlessly. Their fingers brush, and Tony realises how cold Steve’s are. Under the pretext of entangling the sleeves from the belts and the pants, under the cover of rustling fabric, Tony lets their fingers intertwine. Palms flushed against one another, he caresses the back of Steve’s knuckle with his thumb.

 

The security personnel have left them alone. The curtains are still drawn around them.

 

The adjacent group is still cooking up a storm. Maybe they’ve gone over to help.

 

Tony helps Steve fix the buttons on his shirt. “You OK?”

 

Steve gives him a half-smile.

 

* * *

 

Obviously, Tony has never been to a beyond explicit rave party, and he hasn’t – though he should – Googled what an event like this may entail. He expects obnoxiously loud music, psychedelic light work, uncouth people who’s all about sex, sex and sex…

 

He doesn’t expect _jazz_ to come pouring out the basement door as they walk through it. Tony draws his coat tighter about his shoulders as they walk past a quartet of men and women in fancy masquerade masks.

 

He does a double take.

 

“Steve,” he wrings Steve about the wrist, “Look. Masks. Think they have a spare lying around?”

 

Steve looks over the crowd in the direction Tony’s indicating.

 

“Why, do you still want one?”

 

“I think I’ve a dollar or two in these pockets… let me go ask them –”

 

“You’re not allowed to talk to people.”

 

Tony grinds his teeth. He feels circumcised. The one thing in life he thinks he’s good at – yapping – is the one thing he’s not allowed to do tonight. “Can you ask them, for me, then?” Tony ignores the half-eye-roll Steve is doing – he _is_ aware he just asked his Dom to go for a run to the grocery store, he has no choice. “Ask them if they can spare us two of those things. No peacock feathers, please. I’m allergic to peacocks.”

 

“Why do you need the extra mask for?”

 

“… It’s for you.”

 

“I’m not wearing a mask, Tony.” Steve smoothens the lapel of Tony’s coat. “I’ll see if they have one.”

 

“No,” Tony pulls Steve back by the elbow. If Steve’s done with hiding…

 

“Then I don’t need one, either.”


	70. Chapter 70

“We should be stationed near the buffet…”

 

One midnight, Maria called Steve to talk about food arrangements, because these issues are of utmost important and cannot be postponed to the morning. She said there would be a normal serving of finger food for guests who aren’t keen on eating off people’s body. Tony wonders if Steve has to display his vaccination history and latest medical report to placate the fussier eaters, when Maria informed them there would be another pair doing body sushi as well.

 

The fact that there’ll be another naked dude covered in sushi lying next to him is _terrifying._

 

“There’s the buffet queue – oh God.”

 

The buffet is strategically placed in the middle of the convention hall. For easier access, no doubt. It's a swarm of shopaholics with busted credits on a Black Friday sale. Most people are still setting up of their respective scenes in their respective stations, so this crowd with a sudden obsession for finger food may be either really, really hungry, or really, really nervous they’re all gathered at the buffet, flooding their system with fruit punches to numb the nerves.

 

There are two tables placed right next to the buffet spread. A pair of men are standing over them. From this distance, Tony cannot make out their features, but the glare of emerald catches his eyes.

 

“Tony, over here.” Steve steers him about the shoulder away from the buffet. “Your shower.”

 

The crowd is growing, and so do the levels of excitement and chatters. They turn away from the buffet and make their way to the usual seminar room. Tony accidentally elbows somebody in the back, and his apology dies in his throat when he sees how striperrific the man’s get-up is. Ignoring the multiple piercings in his nipples and navel, the only bits of leather covering him are the collar, a vibrating brace about his erect cock, and some sort of restrictive band over his balls.

 

“It’s a zoo in here.”

 

They enter the seminar room and Steve locks the door behind them. There’s Steve’s maroon duffel bag on the table.

 

They spent an entire night packing and checking and re-checking their supplies for tonight. Steve’s been even _more_ meticulous than he usually is, printing out a check-list for himself and Tony, and asking Tony to suggest items he thinks would be of use for the scene. They argued for fifteen good minutes about the necessity of the Cobra Libre and lubricant.

 

Tony unzips the duffel bag, tosses said Cobra Libre and lubricant aside, and reaches for a towel and a fresh bar of soap.

 

“I forgot my rubber duckie.”

 

“We’re ten minutes behind schedule. Come on.” Steve tugs the sash around Tony’s waist loose. He snakes an arm around the waist and pulls Tony close.

 

“Stay close. Don’t get out of my sight.” Tony’s expecting a kiss. Steve leans in, and Tony lifts his chin… “I need you to be safe.” And Steve sinks into Tony’s shoulder, the embrace crushingly tight.

 

Almost desperate.

 

“Steve, what’s wrong?”

 

Steve draws in a deep breath. His almost-there stubbles grate subtly over Tony’s bare shoulders, a meek “Nothing” in reply. Tony’s fingers comb through the fine bristles over the shell of Steve’s ear.

 

“Steve,” Tony nudges Steve’s cheek with his nose, “What’s your safeword?”

 

“Hmm,” Steve’s death grip loosens a fraction. “I forgot that, I’m so sorry. Do you want to set a new one?”

 

“No, not me. You.” Tony wrestles himself free. He cups Steve firmly by his jaws. “What is _your_ safeword? You say it, and I swear, I’ll get you out of here. Immediately. We stop this circus. I’ll take you home.”

 

For a whole second, Steve gawks at Tony like he’s gone _insane_. Blown the top of his skull off insane.

 

Then he laughs. Lightly at first, before he presses his forehead against Tony’s and grins the brightest megawatt grin he’s ever had this week. “Thank you.” Whenever they’re this close, Tony can’t help counting those long lashes.

 

“My safeword?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“… Winter.”

 

* * *

 

“Turn the heat up! It’s freezing in here!”

 

“It’s lukewarm. It’s supposed to be colder –”

 

“Don’t you dare. Why can’t I shower with hot water, and then you douse me once in ice water, and consider the deed done?”

 

“… Tony, we’re serving up food here. We have to lower your skin temperature to ensure the sushi’s freshness. We don’t take chances.”

 

“Then don’t _eat off me._ But what if people _do_ get sick after eating our sushi? Are we gonna get sued?”

 

“Everyone has to sign consent forms before invitation cards are issued. One of the clauses waives N & N of legal responsibility should guests suffer any forms of damages from the plays.”

 

Tony crushes what’s left of the soap bar in the grooves of his palm and lathers them in his hair. “I feel comforted already.”

 

* * *

 

Then, it begins.

 

They exit the seminar room, Tony leading the way and they make a beeline for their table. Wherever they walk, people _turn heads_. Tony clench his teeth and forge ahead with his head held high, blatantly refusing to make eye contacts.

 

“Relax,” Steve’s whisper flutters. “You’ll be fine.”

 

“There are a million eyes on us, Steve,” he grits out. “I can’t relax!”

 

“They’re watching because you’re walking in front of me.” That got Tony grind to an abrupt halt that Steve almost walks into him as well.

 

“Then _you_ walk first.”

 

Steve grips him by the bicep – and Tony’s face burns even hotter when Steve traces the outline of his ear with his tongue. In public. Pray tell why is there a spotlight shining on them _now_?

 

“Keep walking,” Steve orders audibly, and a red-collared Sub standing just left of Tony cranked an approving smile.

 

They resume their awkward march to the buffet, but God damn, whatever it was – Steve being a deliberate asshole, or Steve deciding to go method – that show of power worked. Like a charm! Nobody gives him the slightest side-glance and they eventually reach the middle of the convention hall without a hitch. Hell, somewhere along the way he’s gotten some confidence boost he puts a little bit of strut in his steps.

 

Steve lowers the duffel bag on the ground.

 

“Tony, you got to tone down your… general Tony-ness a bit.”

 

“Tone down my what?”

 

“For both our sakes, _pretend_ to be more submissive. You don’t want to initiate trading with other parties.”

 

“Trading?”

 

“Some Doms may see your attitude unbefitting for a Sub. They may ask for a trade. This is how Doms share techniques, and Subs experience disciplining in the hands of another.” Steve extracts the nylon rope from the bag. “So, if you don’t want to tangle yourself with that sort of business, behave.”

 

“… Yes, Sir.”

 

Steve sighs, and starts unfurling the coil.


	71. Chapter 71

Don’t say they don’t put their heart and mind to the preparations for their scene. They went at it with military precision. Tried out various positions, see which one worked best. The worst design involved his arms cuffed about the wrists, behind his back. Loss of sensation from the shoulders downwards in three minutes flat aside, the extra bump under him set him in a perpetual arch, his torso _not_ flat, which made the rice containers topple off with every deep breath he took. So, he kept his breathing shallow, and then the oxygen wasn’t enough anymore, so he started yawning.

 

Even Steve didn’t have the heart to punish him that night.

 

The next design had his wrists cuffed to his ankles, his knees bent and aligned with his elbows. Steve thought of this position because Maria wasn’t able to tell him the size of the table Tony was going to be strapped on. Just in case they didn’t have enough space to play around with, this position would be good.

 

Tony remembers how much he disliked it. He remembers saying, “This is _humiliating_ , Steve.”

 

With his legs raised, when he’s erect – and he was, because Steve capped his cock with the Cobra Libre and plugged him up real good – there is no hiding. It’s the whole package upfront. What you see is what you get.

 

They vetoed that position in the end.

 

But Steve did take advantage of that preparation. Oh boy, did he.

 

“Too tight?”

 

“No, it’s good.”

 

They go for the most vanilla of knots, the most vanilla of limb positioning; his hands clasped, wrist against wrist, drawn tightly over his head and cuffed to a weight on the ground, his legs pulled apart and bound to each of the table’s own.

 

“Lift your hip.”

 

Steve slips a smallish clean pillow under the arch of his back.

 

“OK?”

 

Tony nods.

 

And Steve turns to his right and says, “He’s ready.”

 

So, someone else is doing the plating of sushi on him, not Steve. Which is fine, he supposes. Steve and art are immiscible. And turns out, the sushi is served fresh, and Tony gulps visibly when the chef brings out his cleaver. He enjoys watching the rice getting rolled and wrapped, the finesse and precision involved in food preparation and serving that he and Rhodey used to spend hours discussing about.

 

Turns out, he isn’t the only interested party.

 

Curious bystanders stand around them _in_ _droves_ and Tony mentally calculates his rhythm – one two one two – where _is_ Steve –

 

Warm hands clasp over his bound ones.

 

“Tony,” Steve leans down to whisper directly into his left ear, “after the food is served, I’ll put the blindfold on you. It’s that timer – the blue plastic cube, remember it? You wanted to throw it out but never gotten around to doing it.” Tony keeps his eyes on the ceiling, away from the crowd – he knows half of them are ogling him – and he feels the familiar weight pressing into the flat of his palms. “It’s set to count down, one second before the alarm. This is your safeword.”

 

“Mr Rogers,” the chef calls out. “It is done.”

 

Steve however, isn’t.

 

He settles an undecorated black box beside Tony’s head. Just within his eyesight –

 

“Is that…”

 

Steve pulls out a packet of condom. Custom made, by the look of it. He unwraps the plastic covering.

 

“One of N & N’s special items.”

 

Great. A condom over his prick, so he doesn’t get to spray semen all over foodstuff. Good thinking. One problem.

 

“Steve,” Tony whispers urgently. The cucumber rolls along his collarbone tremble. “I’m uh… not…”

 

Tony feels his cheeks burn when Steve inspects the problem, in which he’s as docile as a castrated dove.

 

Not his fault. “Yeah.”

 

“We got to fix that.”

 

“ _What?”_

Then, his world goes dark.

 

Steve pats him over the crown of his head. “Trigger the alarm if you want to stop.”

 

He knows Steve’s gone because it feels too cold, too empty all of a sudden, when hands – Steve’s, he recognises them anywhere – grips him tightly on either of his thighs.

 

And Steve starts blowing him.

 

He jerks in his bondage, and the ropes securing him to the table tautens at the pull. The lips and the tongue are getting the job done, but Tony notices the subtle differences. The angling of Steve’s mouth doesn’t feel quite right. There’s pressure at points that he isn’t used to experiencing.

 

Oh.

 

Oh!

 

Steve’s making a deliberate show out of this. Tony feels the air about him warms up considerably.

 

It’s fine. Even if this is a show, he’s glad _nobody_ has appointed themselves commentators. His viewers – if any, can’t see, trying not to care either – are being extremely respectful over it. Good, because if he so much as hears something worth censuring on national TV, he will activate his alarm, have his bonds removed, and start hurling California rolls over the heads of those sons of bitches –

 

Steve’s really bringing his A-game to the table.

 

Tony’s breath stutters, and everything stops.

 

Steve slips the condom over his erection, followed by a warm, spongey ring – some sponge padding, probably – and the cool slice of zesty pineapple around his girth.

 

Delicious.

 

Steve returns to the front and rests a hand atop Tony’s shoulder.

 

“You OK?”

 

“Yeah. By the way…” he deliberates, wetting his parched lips and working his throat. Steve waits patiently. “Are there people watching us?”

 

“… Will a huge crowd spook you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Steve taps him awkwardly, twice. “… Don’t worry about it.”


	72. Chapter 72

The first three minutes or so has been eye-opening. It turns out, not everyone who’s signed up for an underground party in a sex dungeon is a depraved, sex-raging bull in a china shop. Tony, from the bottommost of his quivering heart, sincerely believes he’ll be molested the first chance he bare some skin. Oops, the trench coat is sliding off – cue all the vultures descending on his poor flesh until there’s no modesty left.

 

Yeah, no.

 

Things have been very tame these three minutes. His stomach does a little flip when the first weight along the ridge of his collar bone is lifted. He believes them to be the omelette roll. He doesn’t feel anything else. No grubby fingers or prodding chopsticks.

 

Civilised people! What are the odd?

 

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is crisp and conversational in his left ear, “how’re you doing?”

 

“Good.”

 

“You’re flagging a bit.”

 

There’s only so long he can hang out like that without stimulation. He thinks he did a fine job lasting as long as he did, thank you very much.

 

“Gentlemen,” an unknown voice announces. Tony frowns under his blindfold. “The pineapple is still free for the taking?”

 

At that flat request, Tony’s expression goes blank and he darkly wonders if that stupid pineapple ring has turned into pickle by now. Maybe Steve will offer this guy a new one from the can and shoo him on to his merry way.

 

“Help yourself,” Steve says instead.

 

Come on, there’s still plenty of sushi on top of him, why can’t the guy just choose one of the rolls and be done with it?

 

Heat and moisture wraps firmly around his tip. The rubber is thicker than a conventional one, dulling the sensations, and the man sucks over it, teasing. Tony isn’t sure if this is really happening… a stranger he doesn’t even know how he looks is trying to blow him. In public. He’s consented to it, but…

 

“Lemon,” the stranger comments all of a sudden, as he releases Tony with a wet slurp. “Lemon flavoured condom. Tangy and sweet. Very nice.”

 

“It’s the pineapple you’re after, aren’t you?”

 

Tony bites back a smirk at Steve’s dry retort.

 

“In due time, Sir.”

 

Then, the lips and tongue descend on him once again, wrapping along the hardening shaft. Tony gives in to it fully. Without sight, it’s easy to pretend he’s dreaming a hyper-realistic porn act, he’s the stud, he’s the star – it’s a thought so perverse it sends steam spouting out of his ears but tonight’s been mighty weird, and given the type of crowd he’s surrounded by, he’s a Pope by all accounts. In fact, this is all Steve’s fault. Steve lets the guy have a go at the pineapple around his dick, so now they have to deal with a guy blowing him in earnest –

 

Or at least attempt to. He’s not very good at doing this, is he? He’s certainly tasting every inch of Tony’s now proudly standing erection. But it feels too… dull. Rehearsed? Or maybe after Steve, nothing else can even come close? Still, to this guy’s defence, it doesn’t feel all that bad. It does the job, at least.

 

Then, there’s a lot of humidity and warmth – this feels the best of the entire effort –

 

“Thank you for the pineapple.”

 

“You’re most welcome.” Steve still sounds a tad agitated.

 

And with that, he’s gone.

 

“Tony,” a hand swipes gently over his brows, “You OK?”

 

“I swear to God, if you think I’d break that easily, why’d you put me up for the show in the first place?”

 

“Got to hand it to you. I thought you’d freak out over that little game.”

 

“… He was pretty awful.”

 

Steve’s breath skates lightly over his cheek.

 

“Right. I’m going to change the condom. Add another pineapple –”

 

“We’re _topping up_?”

 

“… Maria gave us a _can_ , Tony. A can contains a whole lot more than a single slice of pineapple.”

 

Steve attends to the maintenance while Tony resumes his playing the plate. Shockingly, people still want to eat the sushi on him. He continues feeling little weights being lifted – he feels not the touches.

 

Until this second weirdo who insists in talking to him. Not via Steve. But to him. Direct.

 

“Don’t be shy. You don’t look like you’ve eaten anything. This spicy tuna roll is simply divine.”

 

Is this a test? Why is Steve not saying anything on his behalf? He tries to recall the laundry list of dos and don’ts of the convention, particularly those pertaining to yellow-collared Subs. Is he allowed to talk to people? It's not like he initiates the conversation - he knows he can't do this. Recalling nothing of use, Tony shrugs. Thinking what-the-hell, he parts his lips and lets the guest feed him the spicy tuna roll that is simply divine.

 

To Tony’s annoyance, that’s just the _beginning_ of what can only be described as pestering.

 

Clearly emboldened by Tony’s reaction, the guest starts plucking sushi from the more intimate of places. There’s apparently a paper cup filled with fish roe over his chest, and he’s only _just_ learned about it because the one hundred or so people before this have never sought to eat those roes. This guest dips his chopsticks into the cup with enough vigour Tony thinks it’s going to puncture a diaphragm. Then the sticks start scavenging around, in a crazed attempt of scooping up a dollop of translucent orbs, and Tony endures the unfortunate side-effect of rough abusing of his nipple through the paper cup.

 

Whether it’s intentional or not, he tries not to speculate.

 

“You’re a beautiful man,” the guest says, “I wish I can eat every morsel off your body without the chopsticks. Blasted rules.”

 

He runs his fingers along Tony’s flank, past the jutting bone of his hips and the side of his butt.

 

“I’ll take the pineapple, at the very least.”


	73. Chapter 73

Does anyone else hear the blaring _ring-a-ding!_ ‘round here? Does Steve? It’s Tony’s weirdo-on-the-move alarm going off, is what. He fidgets where he lies – the ropes feel even tauter from the chilling by the air-conditioning – but doesn’t dare to make too much ado. There’s not much food left, he realises, because there’s no avalanche of sushi as he inadvertently draws in that much-needed huge gulp of breath.

 

Steve grips his hand by the next instant.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Uh…”

 

There’s a bit of shuffling at the end of the table, near his legs. Rough fabric brushes against his toes and a small gust of wind beats against his thighs. Weirdo is taking position, and Steve is _holding his hand._

 

“I’m good, Steve,” Tony reassures himself. “I mean, we got a freaking can of pineapples to finish, don’t we?”

 

“You don’t –”

 

“I’m fine.” If Steve doesn’t back off, he will sock Steve across the jaw, and the weirdo next. “I’ll buzz you if it gets too much.”

 

Never in his post-Steve life does he have the audacity to think of getting sexual favours from another who _isn’t_ Steve. In under an hour, he’s getting multiple from men whose faces he haven’t – and will never – seen. He’s trying to think how this is going to look and feel from Steve’s point of view. Steve doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, which means this is all just good business, he supposes. It’s all very messy. He has time to ponder about it, between the meh blowjobs and lying still. And he still draws no clue.

 

Tongue that feels distinctly different from Steve’s and the previous dude's runs up and down the length of his dick. Tony makes a bet with himself: will this weirdo declare the flavour of the condom, or not? It’s boring thoughts like this that keep him un-invested in the activity at hand, which currently involves a foreign mouth bobbing up and down his –

 

Tony shifts in his bonds again. This man, whoever he is, is serious about giving him heads. He goes deep. Tony thinks he feels _throat_ – there’s pressure, a lot of pressure and coverage.

 

He takes in a shuddering breath and tilts his head over to where he knows Steve is _not_ standing at.

 

Then, hands. Warm, callous hands fondling his balls. And wrapping over excess girth that his mouth can’t reach.

 

Tony swallows thickly. What’s up with this guy?

 

There’s a rush for leftover sushi – he’s helpless against the not-too-careful picking of California rolls and sashimi slices over his stomach and lower abdomen. He thinks the food is gone now, because soon enough even the foliage the chef has used to arrange sushi on – a barrier between his skin and the food – have been rashly pulled aside.

 

He’s completely bare on the table. Exposed, and he knows there are suddenly many more people watching his scene. He feels the arrowing of _eyes_ everywhere.

 

The first groan of pleasure escapes him, and Tony clenches his teeth immediately after. Steve can’t have heard that. Can’t have.

 

Just take the pineapple and _go._

Next comes the finger. At first, he thinks it’s a mishap. A misplaced digit while toying with his sac, but the prodding is insistent. A nudge at his entrance, and then a deliberate shove. Tony’s hip lifts a fraction at the intrusion, and his fist curls even tighter about the rope. It burns. There’s no lubrication – Steve doesn’t allow it, it’s not appropriate for food play – and the man quickly realises it to be the case. He withdraws, and releases Tony’s cock.

 

That’s Tony’s cue to catch up on breathing.

 

The tongue returns with a vengeance, swiping over the puckered entrance.

 

Tony jumps. The table creaks audibly with it.

 

Saliva dribble down the cleft of his butt. Tongue darting _into_ him. The nylon ropes are keeping him in place, as he struggles to get away – _too much_ –

 

The first lurch in his underbelly forces another gasp through his lips.

 

The mouth climbs up to service his balls, and back to his cock – it’s a masterful play of sensation he never knows a man can ever experience, and he’s so lost in bliss he’s ready for the finger sliding into him again. For all of the man’s out-of-the-world showmanship, Tony has no idea what he’s trying to achieve, rubbing him at this one spot – where the prostate is supposed to be, he’s gone through an anatomy book or two. It doesn’t do anything for him, frankly, but the blowjob is steadily pushing him to the edge –

 

Tony panics. He clenches his fist, the alarm buzzes, little reverberations against his palms –

 

“That’s enough, Sir. I need you to stop,” Tony hears Steve’s voice on the other side of the table. The sucking motion over his cock stops immediately, and he’s bereft of all things carnal and sinful.

 

“It was a pleasure.”

 

“Thank you for your participation.”

 

“I can make myself… available, if you wish to have a fresh face at your sessions.”

 

“That will not be necessary.”

 

“Shame. But as you wish. Good evening.”

 

Tony lets the conversation flow past him. He’s grateful Steve’s doing his best to put a stop to things, as he thinks about sewage and boiled lettuce to kill his rising climax.

 

_So darn close…_

“I’m taking the blindfold off.” Steve’s back with him. “It’ll sting a little.”

 

The elastic material is off in a second and the glare does sting a little. Tony keeps his eyes down, on the table, as Steve hovers by him. He realises his head is still bowed to the other side. He blinks, and sees people watching him. Many more are donning masquerade masks, and that’s all good. Tony looks around some more.

 

“Tony? Look at me.”

 

Yeah? A stranger almost made him come. Nuh-uh.

 

“It’s biology. Don’t punish yourself for it.”

 

Steve coaxes him to look over the other side. Over to Steve.

 

“Let me.”

 

Tony relents. Blue eyes connect with his, and Steve presses his lips over his chapped ones. Polite and reassuring. And Tony remembers who he is, and what he means to Steve.


	74. Chapter 74

Steve deepens the kiss, and it’s familiar. Tony surrenders to it. People are watching them making out, and for the first time tonight, he realises he doesn’t give a flying fuck. Steve pulls away, and paves open-mouthed pecks along his neck. Tony turns to the side – to the crowd – to give Steve better access. Steve suckles along the edges of his collarbone, and Tony doesn’t even blush.

 

Somewhere along the line, the knots about his wrists come loose. Steve’s ninja-undone them, and Tony gratefully brings his arms down to chest level. The pin-and-needle fades into background discomfort as he loses himself in the way Steve’s swiping off stray fish roe and mayonnaise direct from his chest. A tongue flicks teasingly over a nipple, and Tony pushes himself up on one elbow.

 

Steve’s cleaning him up. With his mouth.

 

A stiff bowl of lettuce meant to contain some _tako sunomono_ – octopus salad – sits over his stomach, and Steve bites into it. Tony gets up some more, but Steve’s strong arm holds him down, and his tongue swipes teasingly over the ridge of his abdominal packs.

 

By the time Steve’s done, there’re saliva tracks all over him. Steve might as well have let loose a couple of snails and let those buggers race across his body. He’s thoroughly sampled and aroused like hell.

 

Steve ducks out of sight to work on the knots securing his legs to the table.

 

That’s when Tony realises there’s actually _another_ table set parallel to theirs. And that’s only because whoever’s now strapped to it, is crying his stuffing out as his Dom – it’s got to be – is shoving a freaking cucumber into his anus.

 

Tony doesn’t even think. The moment Steve frees his legs, he swings over the edge of the table, catches himself as his knees almost give out from being unused, and flies over to the pair. Over the pounding of his heart and blood in his ears, he hears Steve screaming for him, over the commotion, but Tony’s faster.

 

He grabs the Dom by the arm and pulls. “Stop that, you’re hurting him.”

 

Know how time seems to stretch when shit really hits the fan? In that few seconds, Tony gleans so much new information he was blind to before. The Sub is collared green, and he’s bound to what must be the uncomfiest position of the century: his chest flushed against the table while he’s on his knees with his ass pulled high up in the air. Tony isn’t a voyeur, but even he can’t avoid taking a glance or two at the anus that upon closer inspection, looks raw but is rather well-lubricated and prepared. The Sub who had been obviously crying and shaking has quieted down almost immediately when Tony jump their scene, and is now looking up at _him_ curiously.

 

Tony slowly eases of the Dom’s arm.

 

Oh… boy…

 

“Tony!” Steve’s by his side before he knows it, but the damage has already been done. “Jesus Christ, Sir, I apologise. My charge is rather new to the workings of the BDSM scene. His heart is in the right place. It won’t do you much trouble to let this one go.”

 

Oh right… Tony mentally smacks his forehead. He’s done it, hasn’t he. Initiating contact with other guests. Not just _initiating_ , more like interrupting other people’s scene. That’s pretty high up the “don’t” list, isn’t it?

 

The Dom turns to Steve. Tony can see the lightbulb going off in the man’s head, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

 

“Lieutenant Rogers… am I right?”

 

Steve smiles tightly. “Yes, I am.”

 

“An honour to meet you in person,” the man offers his hand, and Steve shakes it. “I didn’t expect you to return to the scene. At all.”

 

“We’re sorry to have interrupted your play. We’ll take our leave now.”

 

“I’ve heard so much about you, Lieutenant. This trespass we can let slide, but in return I’d like to propose a trade, so to speak. My Sub can use some training, as I’m sure yours will benefit from some disciplining.” Tony feels his blood freeze. “His heart is in the right place, that much is plain to see. But, if we let this go unpunished, what kind of precedents are we setting up in these places?”

 

Steve doesn’t react. It’s hard for even Tony to get a reading on.

 

“What do you say, Lieutenant? Do you accept my proposition?”

 

Tony has an opinion about this. He always has an opinion about things, and he wants to be heard, but the crowd has somehow parted to admit – of all people – Maria, flanked by two other security personnel. Tony won’t put it past her for keeping an eye out on them the entire night. She’s dressed decently, despite the theme of the night. Grey pants and a white blouse. One might think she’s getting ready for another Monday morning at the office.

 

“Gentlemen,” she greets. “Problem?”

 

“Mistress,” the Dom begins, taking her hand in his and laying a quick kiss on her knuckles. “There is no problem. I’m proposing a trade with the Lieutenant. He has not given his reply.”

 

Maria turns to Steve with an eyebrow raised. She spares Tony a look, one that makes his insides shrivel.

 

“What happened that prompted the trade?”

 

“Tony interrupted their session,” Steve explains, and Maria’s displeasure deepens in the way she glares at Tony. “He thinks someone’s hurt. He’s not being deliberately disruptive –”

 

“We got to honour the rules, Steve. If we don’t, who will?” Maria reasons.

 

“I understand if the Lieutenant is not ready for a trade –”

 

“I’ll decide that for myself if I want to participate in a trade –”

 

“This isn’t a question of ego –”

 

Tony watches the drama unfurl, one party talking over another, and wonders what can of worms has he accidentally opened. Steve has instinctively parked himself in front of Tony again, shielding him from the other pair – Tony notices the tendency of Steve to use his body as a cover, he isn’t sure if Steve’s aware of this habit, it both heartens and troubles Tony to no end.

 

“There is no argument here, Steve,” Maria’s voice cuts through. “You know what you have to do.”

 

Steve’s shoulders seem to slump somewhat. “I agree to the trade.”

 

Steve’s hand searches for Tony’s. Tony takes it, and he understands fully the implications of Steve’s words. At this moment, his only concern is for them both to make through the night in one piece.

 

“You up for it, Tony?”

 

“Ah, well,” his fingers close tighter over Steve’s, “Maybe after tonight I’ll learn how to shut my mouth and look away where it isn’t my business.”

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“I don’t mean that.”

 

“We’ll be fine.”

 

Tony huffs lightly. “I do think we’ll be.”


	75. Chapter 75

“How do we play?”

 

By now, half of the convention guests have congregated around the buffet table. None are eyeing the finger food. Tony finds himself praying that the organisers don’t suddenly have a stroke of brilliance and decide to move their little game _onstage_ where the _entire_ convention can have a looksie for themselves.

 

Maria’s expression is as stony as Steve’s, and Tony remains where he is with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

 

“Blackjack. The Mistress can deal for us.”

 

“What are we playing for?”

 

Maria takes a step closer to Steve. She declares, “Winner gets a five-hundred-dollar worth of N & N’s latest line of products.” She leans over to Steve and Tony hears the whisper, “It’s coming out of your wallet, Rogers.”

 

“Fair enough,” the Dom nods his agreement. “Rules are simple. We play, and the losing party has to insert one of these vibrators into his Sub.” He holds out a thin, plastic stick that looks no different than a typical glow-in-the-dark bands that kids often wave about at concerts. “A test of endurance, and loyalty to his Dom. Whoever climaxes first, loses the game. Are the terms agreeable, Lieutenant?”

 

Steve’s frown deepens. “They’re fair.”

 

The game is _not_ in the bag. This is all Tony can think about – they’re going to lose so spectacularly he’s already calculating how much of last month’s salary he has left in his bank account so he can reimburse Steve.

 

“Mistress, may we have this table cleared?”

 

Steve rounds up on Tony and pulls him over to the table just as the staff begin to strip it off the soiled table cloth.

 

“OK, you heard the man,” Steve conjures a piece of tissue paper from nowhere and mops part of Tony’s neck with it. “You heard the rules. Any questions?”

 

“Steve, we’re gonna lose.” Tony Stark’s brand of optimism has no place here. It’s a fool’s hope.

 

“I know.”

 

“… OK. OK, so now that we’ve cleared that up, _what are we doing here_? Let’s just pony up and go home?”

 

“We broke the rules, Tony. There are consequences.”

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“This is all very sudden, I know. Are you all right? Is this hurting you, in any ways?”

 

“No. No, I’m fine. It’s not too bad, actually. Uh, just the nerves. You know, the heebie-jeebies before a poem recital.”

 

“This is probably going to be worse than a stage fright.”

 

Tony spreads his arms and gestures at himself. “I’m standing naked under a spotlight in front of a hundred pair of eyes. It’s been a weird night, Steve.”

 

“That, it is.”

 

Steve nudges Tony over to the bare, wooden table and coaxes him to lie on it. Without the cushion under his hips, he’s anticipating a violent episode of pin-and-needle – after all is said and done. The table creaks again and Tony looks to his side. The other Sub – his emerald green collar a stark contrast to his pallid skin – is also getting into position. They look at each other. The other guy lets slip a small smile.

 

“Tony, raise your knees. Hold your ankles.”

 

Steve promptly shackles his wrists to his ankles. It’s probably the most comfortable tie-up given the circumstances. Steve will need easy access to his entrance and they’re going to be at this for God knows how long. Him on his back, his thighs drawn apart – perfect.

 

The opposing Dom opts for an identical design.

 

Steve leaves him soon after to go sit at wherever the Blackjack is taking place. Tony distracts himself by watching specks of dust glittering in the light. It does get a little warmer and brighter as they’re bathed in spotlights. It casts immediate shadows over the bystanders, clouding them from view. It’s like camping in Crystal Lake all over again. When the night comes, it’s just him and the things in the dark. He knows they’re out there, though he can’t see ‘em.

 

“Deal it, Mistress.”

 

Tony exhales slowly. He hears cards being shuffled.

 

“Hey,” a wispy voice calls out, “relax. Tony, is it?”

 

Tony turns to his left where the other guy is lying, and is somewhat horrified that he – _a green-collared Sub_ – has the gall to talk to him. Talking to others is what gotten them in this mess in the first place, so Tony’s really not all that keen in pushing limits and buttons. He hasn’t even gotten through the first punishment.

 

“We can talk. The rules are… more of a guideline anyway. We’ll be fine.”

 

OK, he’ll bite. “You sure? If they were, we wouldn’t be doing this trade.”

 

The guy chuckles. “You interrupted a scene, made physical contact with a Dom while you’re wearing your collar. In full view of a crowd. Yeah, that can’t be unseen.”

 

Tony lifts his head a fraction and bangs it lightly against the table. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

 

“I’m Ezekiel.”

 

Tony turns to the guy again. “Zeke – how about that?”

 

Ezekiel shrugs.

 

“Eighteen, Lieutenant. Do you want to stay?”

 

“Hit me.”

 

“Ah. Twenty-three. I have in my hand… nineteen.”

 

A chair scraps against the floor and footsteps approach Tony’s side of the table. Steve pops into view and he looks apologetic. The modest heap of pencil-thick vibrators lie neatly in a small mountain between him and Ezekiel. Steve takes one.

 

“I haven’t applied lubricant on you, have I?”

 

Tony shakes his head. They did bring a bottle with them. It’s in the front pocket of Steve’s maroon duffel bag… which is supposed to be under the table they were performing on previously. Which is close by, since he’s now lying on the table set parallel to theirs, and all Steve needs to do is to cross over to the other side in four long strides to retrieve his bag of goodies.

 

There’s no luxury of time to warm the liquid up, and Steve applies the goop generously. Tony lifts his hips, trying to assist in what little ways he can. The sensation of Steve fingering him, occasionally pressing against his prostate – whether intentionally or not – sends his cock to full rigidity. He's endured far too much teasing throughout the hours, it's bordering torture. He misses the proximity when Steve withdraws completely from him. It’s all too quick – not enough –

 

The stick slides into him without restrictions. One pat on the knee later, Steve returns to the front.

 

Tony steadies his breathing and blinks.

 

Ezekiel, in that raspy voice of his, advises, “You don’t wanna be enjoying that, buddy. At this rate, it’s going to be over for your before you even know it.”


	76. Chapter 76

“A Jack and an Ace!”

 

“Twenty one!”

 

“Five cards. Eleven.”

 

The game proceeds without a hitch. And _Steve_ keeps coming back to him. Before long, Tony’s starting to feel the stretch. He’s taking eight sticks up his ass and the fact that the vibrations feel _good_ only goes to show how desperate he is for release _._ Whatever means to get him there, doesn’t matter. And this is really insane because even if it’s _Steve_ inside him, anal stimulation has never done much for him. 

It’s getting harder to not let slip the occasional gasp and moan when he foolishly fidgets and agitates the placing of the vibrators.

 

“Just breathe," Ezekiel quips. He thinks he's being helpful. "Think about the President. The best boner killer.”

 

“Shit…” Tony clenches his teeth as he rides out another surge of pleasure in his lower abdomen. “I swear, if Steve shows his ugly mug again, we’re gonna freaking _switch._ How can a man suck so bad at Blackjack?”

 

“I see you call each other by names. Lovers?”

 

Tony ponders that for a second. “I can’t imagine calling him anything else. He never asks me to. Why, what’s the common practice? What do you call your Dom?”

 

“I call him Master. It’s pretty rare, going around the scene with your real names. The Lieutenant has a stage name himself, once upon a time.” Ezekiel pauses and looks expectantly at Tony, who remains silent because for the life of him, he can’t remember it. _He knows it_. He read about it somewhere. “Captain America. How ostentatious.” Tony bites the inside of his cheek. Can’t disagree with Ezekiel there. “Don’t think he’s using it still. We don’t dare to use it either. You know, if it triggers. You’re his first Sub since then, aren’t you? You must be something else.”

 

Tony smirks. “It’s for a book. No biggie.”

 

Another set of footsteps approach them. It’s not Steve, but it’s not Ezekiel’s Master either. Are other people allowed here? Tony twists and turns – doesn’t care if it makes the vibrators dig deeper – where’s Steve, or a bouncer when he needs ‘em? The stranger picks up a green vibrator – he has a mask on, Tony can’t see past it – and promptly pushes it into Ezekiel.

 

“What was that about?” Tony hisses after the unknown man leaves.

 

“Green collar,” Ezekiel swallows. “My Master probably asks a member of the audience for uh, a favour.”

 

“What the hell…”

 

He’s got a yellow collar on. That’s good, isn’t it? That _guarantees_ thatnobody else can lay a finger on him, nobody else but Steve. He vaguely remembers that terms-and-conditions-applied, but hell, a man can hope, can't he?

 

Two more rounds and Ezekiel soon has three sticks in him. Despite having a lower vibrator count than Tony, his breathing is significantly more erratic, and Tony sees sweat beading under his hairline. He’s panting, and his every muscle is taut with self-restraint.

 

“Hey,” Tony calls over, “think about the President.”

 

“I’ve been edged for over a week now,” Ezekiel gasps. His fists curl and uncurl by his sides. “God, I’m losin’ my mind.”

 

“OK, uh, let’s talk about something else. I’m writing a book, I told you that. Wanna tell me why you take up this lifestyle?” Great, he’s talking about _work._

 

Ezekiel licks his bottom lips. “This is all anonymous, yeah?”

 

“You have my word.” As if it isn’t already. Tony doesn’t believe for a second “Ezekiel” is this guy’s birth name.

 

“Right. If you must know,” he begins breathlessly. Tony tries not to let it distract his mental note-taking. “I’m an executive manager at an MNC, by day. By night, I shed that skin off and slip into something else. This D/s relationship,” he gasps again and holds his ankles tighter, “lets me assume the role of a submissive. I don’t control. I don’t dictate. My Master does all that for me. It’s – it’s fucked up, I know.”

 

Tony gets that. Some people golf, some people paint. Some like to be strung up and whipped. Each to his own. Tony doesn’t judge.

 

“How long have you known your Master?”

 

“Six years.”

 

Tony whistles.

 

More footsteps are approaching his side of the table. What is it again, did Steve call out “Hit me” when he has a twenty in hand? That does it, after this, he’s going to teach Steve how to freaking count to twenty-one.

 

It’s not Steve. It’s Ezekiel’s Dom.

 

“Uh…”

 

“Tony, is it? With your Master’s permission,” he picks up a red stick, “here we go.”

 

Wait, wait, _wait_ a minute –

 

Tony’s already near breaking limit with all the vibrators sticking out of him. It’s still a comfortable stretch, he can easily take one more in. But this guy doesn’t do it like Steve does. Steve approaches it clinically, clearly he means to stave off the pleasure as much as he possibly can. Ezekiel’s Master is the complete opposite. He slides the stick in with deliberation, and once it’s tucked snugly, he doesn’t _leave it be._ He seizes the entire bunch and deftly pumps it in and out of Tony, slowly, patiently, fucking him with a bunch of plastic sticks. His experience shows in the way his wrist flick ever so subtly to elicit the most delicious of friction that makes Tony’s toes curl. He’s getting louder with the sounds of pleasure he reserves only for Steve, and he feels his cock weeping in defeat.

 

Too much roller coaster of sensations in one night. Each time he approaches his climax, the intensity burgeons – his extremities go numb, his mind oozes out of his skull…

 

“Shall we get you off, Tony?” the Dom asks as if he’s jotting down a lunch ticket.

 

His other hand joins in the fray. The careful, rhythmic penetration in his ass, and the grip around his cock, pumping him in parallel –

 

So close, _so close_ –

 

“No,” Tony chokes out, his knees quivering. “Stop, please.”

 

He needs his release. He needs it oh so bad. But not like this. Not in the hand of a man he doesn’t even know his name.

 

Not when he belongs to Steve.

 

And everything stops.


	77. Chapter 77

The vibrators are jutting out of him precariously, but the Master doesn’t bother adjusting them. It stops when Tony calls it. There’s only Tony’s uneven panting filling the gap of time and space. He looks up at the man, confused.

 

“OK,” he says simply, and walks over to Ezekiel.

 

Is that it? Has he lost?

 

Ezekiel starts moaning in earnest – and the table shudders under their weight. Tony dares to take a peek and he sees the Master blowing Ezekiel – holy crap, whatever happens to the Blackjack? Where’s Steve?

 

Ezekiel wasn’t kidding when he admitted he’s been edged for a week. In under a minute, he lets out a cry so harsh Tony’s heart stutters, and he ejaculates so hard it hits his chest. He doesn’t stir afterward, but his Master is already on the move, piling towels over him and summoning a gurney from the nearest corner.

 

“Tony?” Familiar warm, rough but gentle hands are pulling at his cuffs. “It’s over. Come on. Can you walk?”

 

Wow, that’s it? It’s over?

 

“Can you walk?” Steve asks again, shaking him around the shoulders for good measure. His forehead pinches as he pulls Tony up into a sitting position.

 

“Yeah. That’s it?”

 

“Yes, it’s over.”

 

Damn. It’s a tad anticlimactic.

 

“We’re leaving.”

 

There’s a round of applause and a catcall or two from the faceless crowd. Tony doesn’t quite register them. It’s bright, it’s kind of loud – that’s about it. He winces at the rush of blood in his limbs and takes a moment to gather his bearings. A moment that Steve deems too long.

 

“Tony?”

 

He’s here. He’s very here. He’s alert. He’s tracking Steve’s movement and eyes.

 

The trench coat over his shoulders feel hefty. Just when he’s getting comfortable walking around in his skin… getting serious about joining the nudist colony next summer…

 

“Stand up.”

 

He doesn’t really want to, but Steve’s already pulling at his elbow. The bundle of vibrators still sticking out of his ass is killing him, but he’s too tired to do something about it.

 

Apparently, he’s supposed to be going somewhere. But he’s been standing still too long. Steve hooks an arm under his knees and back and up, up and away he goes –

 

That’s an impressive show of upper body strength there, Lieutenant.

 

Most of their spectators have wandered away after the opposing Dom and Sub left the scene. Show’s over, nothing left to see! Few remained, and it’s those few whom Steve has to wade through to get to wherever he intends to. Where it is, finally having a door between them and the zoo? Hallelujah.

 

He’s heading for the seminar room.

 

Steve settles Tony on the table and goes to lock the door. Tony promptly rolls to his side, and he rubs at his eyes, just to make sure. There’s the white board, plastic chairs neatly arranged about the meeting table he’s lying on. Good ol’ seminar room.

 

Steve’s cupping his face in his hands.

 

“Tony, are you with me?”

 

Tony blinks, sluggishly and he feels more pressure pressing into his jawlines.

 

“Come back to me.”

 

What does Steve mean? He’s here.

 

Strong arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to the warmth that is Steve. He gets a whiff of baby powder – Steve, all Steve – and slowly, he reaches up for Steve’s bicep.

 

“Tony, it’s safe. Come back to me.”

 

“… I never left.”

 

He feels the tension in Steve’s arms as those words left his mouth. He starts pulling away, but Steve holds him closer, fingers threading through his hair.

 

“Steve, let go. Or I’m gonna start throwing punches.”

 

Petulance. The return of Tony Stark. Only then does Steve pull away and hold Tony at arm’s length.

 

“Hey.”

 

Tony holds the gaze this time, and his heart picks up the pace. It’s the warmth of the summer breeze, the steady rhythm of the beating waves. It’s like falling in love with the same man all over again.

 

“You OK?”

 

He nods, and sees something stir behind those blue irises. Then, he’s suddenly back in Steve’s choking embrace, his chin resting against Steve’s shoulder, and he hears, “Rough evening, isn’t it?”

 

Tony snorts, “Understatement.”

 

“Was it too much?”

 

“… Nothing completely unexpected, I suppose.” Tony tightens his hold on Steve’s arm. “Are _you_ OK? You’re shaking.”

 

“I’m fine. I’m… uh, trying not to lose control.”

 

Tony stirs uneasily in the embrace. “Steve?”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Yeah. The things I want to do to you now, Tony. God help me.”

 

Ah. How did he miss this? Tony bumps his knee playfully against Steve’s crotch. Lordy. In the last month of them being together, has Steve ever gotten this hard?

 

“No, don’t,” Steve angles his hip away from reach. “You don’t need that. You need –”

 

“Fuck what you think I _don’t_ need. It’s exactly what I _need_.” In a display of out-of-character-ness, Tony spreads his legs and wrenches the trench coat apart. Precum stains where his cock has rubbed against the material. “What’s the lingo around here? ‘Reward me, Master?’”

 

Nose to nose, chin to chin – there’s no finesse, it’s so un-Steve – lips smashing against one another in a duel of want and need. Teeth clashing, tongues darting. Tony isn’t used to such lewd intensity. His fingernails are digging into Steve’s back. It’s got to hurt, and Steve pushes him down so he’s lying fully on the table again. Frankly, it’s a position he’s in no hurry to re-assume, and Steve hikes his knees up, exposing his privates to full visibility.

 

Steve licks his lips, and Tony clenches those select muscles. His cock does a little wriggle, and he laughs as Steve _almost_ does an eyeroll.

 

“Come on,” Tony invites. “Do your worst.”


	78. Chapter 78

“… The colour’s a bit off.”

 

“Jesus Christ.” Because, that’s a legit cause for concern. All the holding-off is going to incur accumulative damage –

 

Steve’s lips close about his swollen head, and he’s not anticipating such level of hypersensitivity. The back of his skull collides headily with the table, just as Steve takes in the rest of his length, slowly, deliberately. It hurts. Literally, and it doesn’t quell the worry that something might’ve gone wrong. It’s supposed to be good. No, it _is_ good – Steve nursing every inch with extra care. Steve’s aware. He thinks Steve’s aware of his discomfort.

 

“This is normal,” Steve comes up for a breather and lets his long fingers ghost along the flesh, “it’s been through the grinder, after all.”

 

“Diction, Steve,” Tony gasps. He’s hard like hell, but it doesn’t feel like he can ever come.

 

Steve mouth returns, littering shallow kisses and licks over his balls. His sac is taut, and as Steve rolls it in his palm, those embarrassing noises just pours out into the open – this seminar room better be soundproof, N & N can more than afford some decent soundproofing –

 

He has to shove a fist into his mouth to kill the screams when Steve seizes the bunch of vibrators and starts pulling at them. They’ve been in him for so long he’s already forgotten about them.

 

“You’re so ready down here, Tony…”

 

Steve shoves them back in. He’s careful, but Tony senses his self-restraint slipping. He’ll be harder if it were possible, and Steve’s feral breathing isn’t helping matters…

 

“Back then, I know he could’ve brought you to your climax.” Tony knows exactly what Steve’s referring to, and he squeezes his eyes shut. The vibrators Steve’s toying with are a fantastic reminder. “You needed it so bad. Why didn’t you let him?”

 

“Can’t,” Tony grits out. “Why are you asking –” Steve tugs the vibrators out in one swift pull. It _does_ hurt, and he cries out as he folds into himself. Steve has commandeered his right leg and balanced it over one shoulder. Tony’s trapped. He remembers the hands of another man on him, and _it was good._

 

Steve replaces the sudden vacancy with his fingers, prodding and scrapping against his insides. Tony’s body responds, tensing with the bizarre mixture of pain and pleasure.

 

“Why didn’t you let him?” Steve repeats.

 

Tony doesn’t know what to say. Hs breath hitches and his vision blurs. The idea of deriving pleasure from another man…

 

“Tony?”

 

He doesn’t realise he’s shielded his face with his forearms until Steve forcefully takes them apart. He doesn’t realise he’s tearing up until Steve thumbs away the wetness under his eyes.

 

“Oh God… what have I done – Steve, I don’t mean to –”

 

“Whatever it was you felt, it ended there. It’s how things work in this world.” Steve leans in and brushes his nose against Tony’s. “What we have here is real. How I feel about you, is real.”

 

Their lips meet again, a sigh escaping when they part.

 

“I want you, Tony.”

 

Tony lets Steve go just long enough for him to undo his pants and slip on one of Maria’s condoms. If it weren’t for the urgency of the circumstances, Tony would’ve pointed out how silly the yellow stripes on the rubber look. Mango. He wagers it’s mango-flavoured.

 

“Come here you,” Steve almost growls as he hauls Tony closer by the knees. “OK?”

 

He feels the prodding of something warm and eager. He’s waited a while for this. “Yeah.”

 

Steve enters in one unhesitating push, and Tony takes him in readily. Steve hugs his right leg as he allows Tony some time to get accustomed to it. A bunch of plastic sticks just can’t compare to the real thing.

 

“All right?” Steve rubs idle circles on Tony’s shin.

 

“Yeah. Go to town, Steve.”

 

Steve starts rocking against him, slowly, as if Tony might break into two if he does anything more. And it’s exactly this – this thoughtfulness – that’s killing Tony.

 

“Steve,” Tony bites out, “no more teasing.”

 

“It’ll hurt.”

 

“… I really don’t care.”

 

He almost regrets saying that as Steve reaffirms his grip on Tony’s knee. When the fucking gets real – balls slapping against balls, no holds barred – he’s left clawing his trench coat for solace, because only now does he realise how much Steve’s been _holding back_ all along.

 

“Don’t – don’t clench up, Tony,” Steve reprimands. It’s unnerving, to be so coherent as he’s pounding into another with so much vigour. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Steve puts his leg down – small mercies – and turns him around so he’s lying fully on his back, on the table, facing Steve. The intimacy startles him, he’s afraid his cheeks will colour up. This is insane…

 

“What is it?” Steve has slowed down considerably, seemingly content with just lazily sliding in and out, purposely dragging out the inevitable. “Your face is flushed.”

 

Dang it.

 

“Are you in pain?”

 

“No.”

 

“… This embarrasses you?”

 

“… Shut up. Less talking, more fucking.”

 

Steve laughs, light enough that Tony doesn’t feel affronted, but he does feel the colour deepen in his cheeks nevertheless. Dang it all. He gasps as Steve picks up the speed, and the change in angle is most welcomed. It’s still not enough, until Steve’s free hand slips down to grasp at his cock firmly. That’s it – no more games –

 

Steve leans in, and Tony can’t hold back his screams. There’s no finesse in the motion anymore, just animalistic instincts and need –

 

“Tony…”

 

Steve’s drilling into him hard and fast. It hurts, hypersensitivity threatening to take over and ruin this for them, but amidst it all, he focuses on the churning deep in his belly. What’s his is his. And he’s taking it now.

 

“Steve… don’t stop –”

 

His body seizes up as he climaxes, folding into himself – and he takes Steve with him. Steve’s breathing sounds too harsh in his ears, his own voice uncontrollably lurid as he seeks his release. It takes him a while to descend the madness of it all. Has to remind himself not to freaking pass out. Steve’s chest somehow finds its way to rest against his, and the heat anchors him to where he is.

 

“Hey,” Steve calls out. Tony cracks a smile. He keeps his eyes close because the next best thing would be power napping right here, right now, on this sordid table. Steve’s forehead nestles against his. “Stay with me?”

 

Tony hums easily. There’s no other answer he can possibly give. “Not going anywhere, Steve.”


	79. Chapter 79

“What happened in the end? How come he came up to me instead?”

 

Steve pulls the zip to his pants and tosses a careless glance at Tony. His eyes linger at the collar, and Tony feels a phantom tightness around his throat. “You mean the game just now?”

 

“I meant last year’s Kōhaku – yes, Steve, the game of Blackjack.” Tony clambers off the table with little grace. He wrenches the collar off and pulls the trench coat over himself. “Why didn’t you come to me instead? He said you allowed it. What did you tell him?”

 

“Ah, that.” Steve wraps his belt around his waist and fixes his buckle. “He won the last round, but he wanted it to be the _last_ round. Something about enough edging for his Sub, and he had a feeling after the body sushi you’d be close to your limits as well.” Tony crosses his arm across his chest and watches Steve put his shirt on. “He asked if it’d be OK for him to service you on the side.”

 

“… And you were OK with that?”

 

Steve presses a look squarely on Tony. “Did it – were you –”

 

“It’s fine. I think. It did take me by surprise.”

 

Steve slowly attends to his buttons. “That man is a regular. His real name isn’t known to many, and he keeps a low profile whenever he scenes with his Sub. Understandable, considering he’s the CEO of Shaw Industries.”

 

That has Tony’s lower jaw detach and roll off the floor.

 

“ _Sebastian Shaw_? I’d just been fucked by a makeshift plastic dildo by _Sebastian Shaw_?”

 

“He is a sensible Dom. I trust his work. I thought, if you were comfortable partnering with him, you get extra material for your book. If you weren’t, he would’ve done all he could to ensure your safety.”

 

“You make some awfully powerful acquaintances just being in the scene.”

 

“We aren’t friends,” Steve reiterates dryly as he rolls up his sleeves. “But these are the people who keep the dungeon running. They’re some of Maria’s most loyal customers.”

 

“Right. Imagine this. Chapter seven: the economics of the BDSM community –”

 

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation. They exchange a passing glance, and Tony hobbles slowly to it. Maybe it’s Maria. Maybe she’s pissed that they’ve soiled her meeting table with body fluids. He unlocks the knob, pulls it open –

 

“Mr Shaw!”

 

Good God.

 

Steve is quick to stand behind him, holding the door open. Indeed, their visitors are Shaw and Ezekiel, a thick travelling coat draping over the latter’s shoulders. It’s good to see that he’s up and about. Tony notices that his collar too is gone, and under the coat he’s already properly clothed.

 

Tony pulls the trench coat tighter about his body.

 

“Lieutenant, Tony,” Shaw nods at each of them in turn. “We’re about to take our leave. I wanted to make sure everything’s fine.” At this, Shaw turns his attention to Tony, giving him a sweeping glance from top to bottom.

 

“I’m good, thank you,” he replies. It’s a bit odd, having another Dom caring about his welfare. Steve was right after all. Whatever happened back then, ended back then. No strings attached. But what made this a cut above a thrashy one-night-stand is the respect and aftercare, he supposes. The few occasions he woke up next to a rumpled but empty bed, they didn’t bother to even flush down the toilet.

 

“All right. I trust you’re in good hands after all. Good evening, gentlemen.” And with that, Shaw leaves. Tony doesn’t expect Ezekiel to linger after his Master has walked off.

 

“You OK?” Ezekiel asks in turn. Not having the collar on him dispels the illusion of this subjugating Master-Slave relationship. It’s a terrible inference, to think that Ezekiel is not his own person, that he’s meant to follow doggedly in Shaw’s footsteps.

 

“I’m OK. How are you? You passed out on the table, do you need the doctor –”

 

“Nah, it’s fine. Fatigue, the nerves. The paramedics gave me a look-over. Nothing a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

 

“That’s good to hear,” Tony nods.

 

“All right, then. Nice meeting you, Tony. Maybe we’ll see each other again someday.”

 

They shake hands, and with a cursory nod in Steve’s direction, Ezekiel too exits through the same door Shaw went out of.

 

“That’s… nice of them,” Tony murmurs when the silence is prolonged.

 

“It’s basic courtesy.”

 

“I have a feeling I’m missing out quite a bit from this convention. I thought it’s just gonna be a night-long of mindless, kinky sex.”

 

“Why, you want to go back out for another round? To collect materials?”

 

“Jesus Christ, no, thank you.”

 

Steve reaches out and fusses over Tony’s sash. It must be close to midnight. The party’s truly over.

 

“Let's go home.”


	80. Chapter 80

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final chapter of "Keeper" :)
> 
> Before the epilogue.

“Why the long face? You said you were fine with this?”

 

“This is my _resting face_ , Steve. Stop mother hen-ing. You’ll be gone for only what, five days? Peace on earth.”

 

“Right. If you miss me, I’m only a phone call away.”

 

“Oh, you presumptuous little shit. You’re a changed man.”

 

Tony’s done idling by the car. He pulls open the back door and pitches Steve’s duffel bag onto the seat none too gently. He makes a great show about slamming the door shut and not caring about the fact that Steve’s reporting for duty at the ATF field office in Los Angeles, and attempting to get a transfer back to Sacramento.

 

It’s not that far, to be honest. If the transfer is denied, they can always meet over the weekend. That’ll be what, some five hours’ drive? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, don’t they always say so?

 

“Look after the petunias for me?”

 

“Yes, boss.”

 

“Look after yourself?”

 

“Been doing well so far even before I knew you, Steve. I’m going to be fine. _You’re_ the one getting a transfer. You take care of yourself.”

 

“… Been doing well so far even before I met you.” The playful glint in Steve’s blue eyes returns. Tony wants to smack it away. “Never knew it could be better, having you.”

  
Smooth. Very smooth. Brownie points well deserved.

 

“Steve,” Tony leans against the car, “this job, I know how much it matters to you. Don’t give up on it, no matter what the reason.” He lifts his chin, the sun gleaming in his hair. “Your priority is to serve the people, maintain the country’s security and safety. If that means sacrificing on my part, spending the weeks apart, it sucks, I’ll tell you that, but it’s going to be worth it.”

 

“You’re important, too. Don’t give up so quickly. I’ll try to make the best arrangement, for both our sakes.”

 

“… That’s pretty sappy, isn’t it?”

 

“Comes within the territory, I suppose.”

 

“OK. I’m dawdling. You should go.” He pushes himself off the car. Steve finally pulls open the driver’s door. “I packed you some extra jackets. It’s gonna be cold at night. I know how much you like your honey in your night tea, so I got you an extra jar –”

 

Steve silences all the rambling with a kiss. In broad daylight, in full view of his fellow neighbours, Steve Rogers leans into his lover, a hand cupping his jaw as their lips meet in a final bid of goodbye.

 

From the tail of Tony’s eyes, he sees Room 317 drawing the curtains close so fast it's a blur – and it doesn’t bother him.

 

“I’ll miss you, Tony.”

 

“… I’ll call.”

 

“I’m sorry I have to leave.”

 

“Me too. But, duty comes first, Special Agent Rogers.”

 

Sparing Tony a curt nod, Steve pulls himself into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Tony stands by the curb long after the back of Steve’s car’s disappeared over the horizon. God, this feels awful. It’ll be next Friday until Steve makes the return journey. But until then…

 

Three days later, he thinks Steve’s place needs a little bit of dusting. Every nook and cranny looks a tad sad, like the whole place is missing its owner. Tony fluffs up Steve’s pillow and sighs. The silence is jarring when it’s just him alone prowling the space. It’s not like Steve kicks up a ruckus everywhere he goes, but the vacancy really does hit something hard. He wipes the bookcase and the nightstand with a damp cloth, and spends a full minute debating if he should just dip the dusty metal robot into the pail of water. A quick shower mayhap. Or, he could wipe it carefully with the cloth and then stick it somewhere closed-up so it doesn’t have to collect dust – Steve isn’t here to ogle at it anyway.

 

He pulls the first drawer open and there it is. He hasn’t seen it in ages. He thought Steve’s gotten rid of it for good.

 

The photograph of James Barnes and Steve in Kosovo.

 

It angers Tony, holding the photo frame as he’s kneeling on the floor, the robot forgotten.

 

It’s his job to get to the bottom of this. Of the drug-manufacturing and -dealing Barnes and his organisation are involved in. For hurting Steve. For hurting countless other.

 

He’s not running around headless. No more. He’s retracing his steps, starting from Obadiah Stane himself. The coffee shop where he operates from. Barnes. A war vet can’t just vanish. There will be records, sightings. 

 

By hook or by crook.

 

He gets shaken out of his reverie when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Steve only calls at night after he returns from work, but it’s still noon. And indeed the number that flashes across the screen isn’t his.

 

He answers it with a smile nevertheless. “Hey, Pepper. Long time. How are you?”

 

“Hey yourself. Have you received my wedding invitation?”

 

“No – but congratulations, again.”

 

“You and Steve are coming, aren’t you?”

 

Now they’re attending functions together.

 

“Steve’s a bit tied up with work, but we’ll make time, yeah. Wouldn’t want to miss my best girl’s big day after all.”

 

He can practically hear Pepper beaming across the frequency.

 

“So, how are you, Tony?”

 

“All things considered,” he gives Steve’s bedroom a glance, and the edge of his lips tip upward, “it’s been pretty amazing.”


	81. Stinger

“I’m cooking proper food, I promise you. I’m not having McDonald’s for dinner.”

 

It’s seven in the evening and Tony has a craving for a simple mac and cheese. What can he say? He’s a sucker for comfort food when he’s lonely and has nothing much to do for the rest of the day. Steve is on the other side of the phone. It’s their little ritual nowadays, Steve calling before he turns in for bed – which is too early in Tony-verse – or if he has an early morning the next day, a short call around dinner time.

 

“You need more greens.”

 

“Why are you lecturing me about what I stuff in my cakehole? Boring – I’m giving you a boring alert, Steve. Let’s talk about your day. Must be fun. Busted any evil crime overlord lately?”

 

“It’s just my second week. I’m still reading up on my first case.”

 

“Hmm, something big?”

 

“It’s my first case. I’m just tagging along another unit. Nothing wow-ish.”

 

Aha, a shortcut. He takes the turn into an alley and tightens his grip on his grocery bag. He’s all run out of cheese, and what is mac and cheese without the cheese? Steve’s decided to call on his short run to the local store – he wishes the call had come when he’s at home, then they can talk about non-public-friendly stuff.

 

Because, not being physically around Steve offers him fantastic opportunities for dirty talking and long-distance teasing. Steve deserves a bit of bullying sometimes.

 

“By the way, when you come back this weekend, we’re gonna play Blackjack.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you suck at it. I doubt you can even count to twenty-one.”

 

Steve laughs loudly over the phone. Tony picks up his pace – the evening’s getting chillier – and he sees the roof of his apartment.

 

“All right, I got to hang up, Tony. There’s a meeting in an hour. I’m thinking of grabbing something to eat before I go.”

 

“Yeah. Talk to you tomorrow?”

 

“Watch the cheese when you –”

 

“Uh-huh – nope – reception’s bad –”

 

“Tony, really?”

 

“Really,” he huffs. He’s a tad irritated that the call has ended before it even started. It feels that way. “Tomorrow, Steve.”

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

“… I miss you.”

 

“Me too.”

 

He can only sigh bitterly when the line goes flat.

 

Life. It happens.

 

He’s about to emerge from the alley and cross the street when an arm, out of nowhere, seizes him gruffly by his collar and reels him back into the alley. He yelps – his heart skips a beat – but his body remembers how to handle it. He swings an elbow at shoulder level, ready to bash in the face of his assailant – but he hits nothing. Next thing he knows, his face is flush against the rough grain of the brick wall, his arm twisted all the way around his waist. Steve once said, if at risk of being cornered against a dead surface, _get out,_ that’s the worst place to be.

 

Shit.

 

He pushes back to no avail. 

 

“Resistance won’t do you any good. I just want to have a word,” a man’s voice, gruff and deep, comes in a hiss right by his ear. He struggles some more, but the man’s dead weight has him pinned good.

 

“Let me go.”

 

“I know what you’re up to. I know who you’ve been talking to, and what you’re working on, Anthony Stark.”

 

His blood freezes in his vein at that. His hair stands on end, and he finds breathing suddenly difficult.

 

“I know who you’re _with._ You want to jump into this hellhole, then by all means. But leave Steve out of it.”

 

Steve? What’s Steve got to do with this?

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I can’t protect him all the time. Don’t drag him back into this.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony blurts. His heart is thumping in his throat. This is information – his instincts tell him whoever’s talking to him, is his gateway to the ultimate truth. His holy grail. But why Steve? How is Steve connected to all these?

 

“I’ll warn you just this one time. You want information, you got to bleed for it. The price is steep. Be ready to lose your life over it.” The man shifts. In the next instance, something like a card is forced into his back pocket.

 

“If you’re feeling stupid, just holler.”

 

Then, the weight upon him is gone. He’s free.  

 

Think he’s going to just let some guy walk all over him, threaten him, threaten _Steve_?

 

Using the the wall as leverage, he shoves himself off it and throws his elbow out again – it digs deep into flesh, he finally gets one in – when a knee slams squarely into his stomach, knocking all air out of his lungs. One arm smashes him in the back, sending him crashing to the ground. He quickly rolls over to his side, and a foot sinks into his chest. There’s no breath left to even scream, and this time, he stays put.

 

“You got spunk. That’ll be the end of you, Stark.”

 

Groggily he lifts his chin and there it is, under the yellowish baseball cap is the face he’ll recognise anywhere.

 

James Barnes.

 

He tastes bile in the back of his throat and coughs. It can’t be a hallucination, can it? The ache all over his body is real enough. By the time he’s collected himself, Barnes is already gone.

 

If he thinks some roughing up is going to put a stop to the investigation, if he thinks this is going to make him cower…

 

“Son of a bitch,” Tony spits saliva into the gravel.

 

Bring it on.

 

* * *

  

**Tony Stark and Steve Rogers will return in[Keeper 2: Hook, Line and Sinker](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10210808).**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People, thank you so much for staying with "Keeper" to the bittersweet end. You guys have been fantastic. _Beyond_ fantastic. Without your continuous support, this story wouldn't have grown to this magnitude. A sequel wasn't even in the planning when this first came about. Wowzies. I hope to see you in Keeper 2. It's been so much fun working on "Keeper" and interacting with you in the comment section. Have I mentioned how much I love you guys? Now you know. I'll see you soon  <3


	82. Temporary Announcement?

Hey people, I'm not sure how to reach you guys so here it is, just a quick note: "[Keeper 2: Hook, Line and Sinker](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10210808)" is up. Looking forward to seeing you again :)


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